


Seek a Desolate Shade

by wolf_shadoe



Series: The Inkverse [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-31 21:53:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18322679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolf_shadoe/pseuds/wolf_shadoe
Summary: Six months after climbing out of the Sunnydale crater together, Buffy and Spike try to stumble their way through a world they changed.





	1. Abode

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of a sequel to this art/words project: http://nootloot.co.nz/index.php/inkydrabbles/  
> So maybe go read that first.  
> Also on Elysian Fields.  
> Pics don't seem to resize nicely here - pls right click and open in new tab.
> 
>  
> 
> _Previously in the Inkverse... ___  
> Canon smashed in the closing scene of Chosen - Buffy stomped back down the crater, found the amulet, demanded her vampire back. They moved to an apartment in Chicago, and worked through some baggage.
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _X's to denote switches in pov._  
>  _
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> _Huge huge thanks to Badwolfjedi for betaing and encouraging me immensely heart_  
>  Huge huge thanks to MiseEnPlace for betaing the toughest jumble and helping me learn to punctuate somewhat wink  
> Mistakes are all mine.

 

 

_Six months,_ she thinks, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove top. Feels like yesterday; feels like a lifetime ago _._ Feels, sometimes, like one endless day, time all twisted together with no clear borders anymore to delineate days and weeks and months.

 

Once there’d been school, college, work; the timetablic consistency of:

—–

_11am Tuesdays: English Lit._

_2:30pm Thursdays: coffee with Willow_

_10pm Saturdays: patrol lower docks_

_June 10th: summer break begins_

—–

 

Now, however…

…adrift…

 

Tomorrow: _call Brazil – check time zones! – try to catch Willow, find out how many new girls they’ve gathered in._

 

Yesterday(?): _head to that neutral bar downtown, take this, you’ll be trading it with a Kogush demon for a gift of friendship._

 

Last week (definitely, but who knows which day(s?)) : _fly out of India 11pm, escorting two girls to join our team._

 

Today, though: _meeting, 1pm._ Down the road, Chicago HQ. World Headquarters. Watcher Central. _Slayer Central_ , Giles front man but everyone clear on where the power lies. Still, she worries over the wisdom of that placement; lingering distrust and resentments ahoy. But who else? And there’s just _so much to do._

Eight hundred girls Called that day through Willow’s spell, at least by best estimate. Five hundred and forty-two accounted for in the six months since, most tagged onto one of the regional teams spread across the globe. Twenty-five stamps on her passport last month. Seven from that bus out of Sunnydale now on the council payroll. Numbers and dates and times, all rolling together into one incomprehensible mess. But these single sentence memos – manageable.

Meeting, then.

Xander’ll be there, stateside for a few hours before flying out again to continue his lonely search for more of the newly Called. She’d thought to try and reach out to him somehow, this time, but…

Faith, too, reporting in from over the pond. Bound to front as loose and challenging as always (on the surface at least). The strain’s been starting to show through, though, the press of leadership on their former lone wolf.

 

But, _six months._ She smiles, turning for the living room. Because, there is _one_ thing more.

 

And that eclipses _everything_.

 

 

 

**x**

 

– big bad poet

she teases gently

catching me scribbling again

– cathartic

i say

 

small smile, she reaches out

ruffling my hair in affection

rumble a growl in response

knowing that’s why she does it

 

over shoulder, she reads

(no blushing now william, ha)

then frowns to herself, become introspective

 

– the way you write about me..i don’t have the words…

 

kettle whistles, and she slides away

morning coffee luring to our sunny kitchen

 

i love to listen

comfort and safety in the small sounds

domestication in teaspoons and mugs

knowing i could lounge in the doorway

watch her golden tresses gleam in the sunrise

 

today though

scribble my reply while she’s distracted

tuck it sly into her pocket while kissing her out the door

picture her finding it later

as she fidgets through her keys

impatiently chafing at the watchers’ meeting

 

the way she’ll pause

everything fading away

she’ll chuckle first

at my bleeding heart dramatics

but she’ll see me, through the words

and smile softly

knowing

she is loved.

 

 

 

 

**x  
**

 

“Buffy? Did you hear a word I just said?” he pauses to ask.

It’s Xander who answers him though, false lightness in his voice.

“She’s got another one of those notes. Don’t bother G-Man, she ain’t gonna hear you.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake. This is getting ridiculous. Here I am trying to plan a crucial – nay, critical even – investigation and if it wasn’t enough that every rostered team is suspiciously “busy” my slayer is distracted by a master vampire leaving love notes like a preteen girl.” _Honestly._

A couple of the more outspoken young slayers take up the cause on her side of the table, eyeballs stretching sideways as they try to sneak a peak.

“Well I think it’s sweet,” announces one. Does she  _always_ have to be so quick to oppose him on every insignificant point?

“To be loved like that…” sighs the youngest, and the sigh seems to suffuse through that whole group of them. He has _got_ to have another talk with Buffy about keeping her private life private, her example is doing terrible things to the impressionable girls. Slayers.

Faith butts in then though, breaking the mood for him with her reliable form of scorn.

“Don’t know that I could hack it really. Who wants to be chained to one person when there’s so much fun to be had out there?”

 

But she needs it, he knows. The weight those small shoulders carry…  So he lets his ire fade, watching her face transform with a smile. She folds the slip again carefully, smoothing the edges, and tucks it into a pocket before looking up firmly and springing to her feet.

“We’ll take the NZ thing. Spike and I can be in and done before another team gets there, and someone from HQ ought to meet and greet their team. Book the flights. Meeting adjourned.”

And with a toss of her head she’s out the door.

 

**x**

 

“Some sort of overgrown snake thing apparently. Australia’s full of snakes isn’t it? Maybe we should take explosives…what?”

He’s staring at her in a way that tries for disgusted superiority, but slips up at the twinkling in his eye before he gives in and chuckles.

“We’re not going to Australia pet, and if the kiwis hear you muddle that one you’ll have a real fight on your hands. Hate each other they do, being neighbours and all. And there’s no bleeding snakes.”

“Well you be research boy then. Just tell me where to aim and I’ll give you _bleeding snakes_ ”.

Stomping over she slaps the folder across the table to him and crosses her arms, frowning down at the floor.

Everything’s been extra-bickery this evening – both of them feeling this prickle of anxiety at the thought of moving beyond their bolt hole. Since Sunnydale they’ve kept to themselves as much as possible, the constant bustle of this strange city too big to venture out in, company intrusive when everything’s still so raw. But duty calls as always, and this doesn’t feel like something one of the new teams should be sent to handle. And it’s either conveniently leave town or be sent to check up on LA, and neither wants that. She’d hoped things would quiet down after their big win, but apparently the underworld didn’t get the memo, and she’s starting to think it never will.

 

“Hey.”

Startled from thought, her eyes flick up to find him watching her softly, head cocked as if to read her better. The tension eases, and she drops her arms as she exhales.

“Let’s us have a look then, put a face to this beastie.” His hand comes out, inviting her to join him at the table as he pulls out the sheaf of papers and begins to flick through. She’s just starting to lean her weight into his side when he startles back from the page before him, eyes wide.

“Christ Slayer, that’s a freakin’ dragon!”

 

 

 

**x**

 

Stepping from the cab, it hits his nose like a wall: hot sweat and flustered anxiety, greasy paper bags and stale cigarettes, heady menstrual blood on a passing woman, and everything drowning under a potent chemical wave of perfume and beauty products. He can’t tell whether the swirling inside is an urge to throw himself forward and have at it all, or to recoil back into the relative safety of the car’s interior and beat a swift retreat, and so simply pauses in place, a quivering tug of movement running beneath his skin.

“O’Hare at rush hour,” says a small voice at his side, and remembering the hand clamped in his, he tugs her closer and slaps on a grin as he marches to the boot for their luggage.

 

**x**

 

She fidgets in her seat for what must be the hundredth-thousandth-millionth time, then shoots a pouting glare sideways to where he’s sprawled crossways on his, loose-limbed and somehow looking perfectly comfortable in sleep. Eight million hours they’ve been stuck on this damn plane, the last with him (feigning?) sleep behind his sunglasses as she boils up to ever higher levels of frustration. Finally she pokes her tongue out at him, and when there’s no response raises two fingers at him in his favourite salute. His lips curve then into a lazy grin as he murmurs, “Why, Slayer, you do learn,” before diving on her in a sudden pounce. He chases down her provoking little tongue and she lets him catch it, until a pointed throat-clearing from the seat row in front has her groaning in frustration as she pushes him back to continue this endless  

s  i  t  t  i  n  g .

 

**x**

 

The country looks oddly fey as they approach, slim fingers of green trailing off into the surrounding ocean, veiled everywhere with misty cloud. A place to get lost, he thinks, and maybe we could together. If there were time.

Smells green too, the crisp night air a mingling of foreign plants, familiar pine and briny sea as they finally leave the sterility of the airport. Lights of the city proper glow in the distance, but here in the carpark are deep pools of shadow between each feeble bulb, and as if by mutual accord they let their feet stop in the first one, to just stand, breathing in the quiet darkness.

 

**x**

 

His hands on the wheel glow greenish, pale skin catching the dashboard lights. Their rental car is smooth and quiet, the outside world only dimly seen through tinted glass and swirling fog. Past the hill demarcating city from farmland the road is empty, a long grey path winding parallel with the deep black river on the right. She snuggles deeper under the blanket of his coat, toes tucked up beneath her, and rests her head against the seat to watch him drive, tired now by her earlier frustration, letting herself be lulled by the twists and turns.

 

She blinks slowly when they stop moving, dazedly pulling back from the edge of sleep to focus on the motel exterior. End of a long row of identical attached rooms, theirs carries a certain uncaring and aloof weatheredness in it’s flaking paint and low roof.

It’ll do.

 

**x**

 

watch her checking and rechecking keys, wallet, boots

procrastination lingering at the threshold

neither of us sure if what she’s fussing over is

leaving me here alone

or going out alone

 

but,

blood to fetch

people to meet

sun shining down

so:

 

– got all this reading to do

i say

– take your distracting self away

 

slips outside at last

i sigh

and let myself

 

      s

          i

             n

                k

 

for just a little while.

 

feels harder

away from home

to keep this all

wrapped under a smile

 

**x**

 

Meeting first, then shopping, had seemed the smartest plan. Arriving on foot to the watcher’s doorstep juggling jars of blood hadn’t seemed likely to present the professional leader-y vibe she’d been aiming for.

Except now she’s juggling books and parcels through a strange supermarket and feeling all sorts of flustered anyway.

 

A hand appears, swooping a basket out in front of her, and she looks up to find a uniformed young man flourishing his open palm towards its empty receptacleness, an easy grin on his face. Smiling gratefully, she thanks him as she dumps her armload and takes the handles.

“Anything else I can help you with?” He asks, and a flush creeps up her neck as she stumbles out her request, but at least she gets the units right. And hopefully the species – she’s sure it was cows’ they were supposed to have? And the amount –  how much _was_ two litres?

But the man doesn’t blink, just asks if that’s all as he leads her to the butcher’s counter, calling back a “wait right there” before ducking out of sight behind it.

So she does, trying to look polite and unobtrusive, peering over at the things on offer beneath the glass. And failing as she leaps back, fists rising, at the sight of them peering back.

 

**x**

 

“It’s not funny!” she pouts at him, weight shifting slightly as if she’s suppressing the urge to stamp her foot.  “Everyone laughed at the squeamish American lady and I still had to stand there and wait for your bloody– dinner. There were disembodied heads! Fishes and pigs all looking at me, and these curly tails and – and and these skinless creatures with big eyes that might have been bunnies!” Her own eyes are big as she finishes, and he throws his head back to laugh even harder.

She stomps closer, finger out ready to poke him in the chest for daring to mock her embarrassment, but then stifles a snicker of her own before pinching his nipple instead and shrieking away, laughing.

He chases her then, leaping the bed as she rounds it to catch her in a tackle to the floor, then holds still until her eyes catch his and she ceases struggling. He’d meant to throw her off enough to get his own back, pinch that pert little bottom maybe, or tickle her ribs to set her squealing, but with her chest heaving against him and eyes darkening with lust, he can’t recall why, so he kisses her instead.

 

As they retrieve their clothing from around the room he can’t resist one last jab.

“Don’t worry, Slayer. Small town like this, they’ll remember to look out for that wussy American, prolly tug down a curtain next time you walk in.”

She throws her shoe at him.

 

**x**

 

“So this dragon.”

“Taniwha, Spike,” she says primly, smirking at finally having the upper hand on a point of language. After having her ta-nigh-wah met with a look of grim disgust at the meeting earlier, she’d listened carefully, then practiced on the walk back to the motel, rolling the word across her tongue until it flowed: _tar-knee-far_

“Dragon.” He pauses, eyebrow raised, but she refuses to take the bait. “No one’s seen it, no one’s been gobbled up. They’ve called us bigwigs in because it’s off moping?”

“Seems like. Apparently there’s a man downriver somewhere who sings to it, and he’s all upset because lately it’s not singing back. The local slayer came by for a look-see but there was nothing to look-see, and that would have been that. Except now sheep are going missing, so we have to go poke sticks in the water and see if we can find anything.”

“Right. You did look at the picture right? No “actual size” under this one.”

She shrugs. “We’ll use big sticks.”

 

**x**

 

Watching the microwave spin, she wonders whether she should try and put a call through to Dawn. What time would it be in Rome now? Beyond her reckoning, and irrelevant really; she rarely catches her at home and awake at the right time. Maybe she’ll send a postcard instead, some tangible yet distant token of her presence. Something scenic, so they can pretend she’s on holiday. “Wish you were here” when they’ll both know she doesn’t, not really, treasuring the image of Dawnie tucked up safe, the apartment shared with Andrew, a life filled with friends and studies and parties, the world laid out before her. “Stay safe” instead then. _I save this world for you. Live in it, please._

 

The phone rings as she’s removing her plate; Giles checking in no doubt. “Could you?” She asks, nodding from her full hands to where it’s tethered. But he’s already on his way over, and picks it up to lean casually against the doorframe, back to her in perfect nonchalance.

“Tēnā koe Kaititiro,” he rumbles, syllables smooth and melodic in his rich voice, “We’re about to head off down Whanganui te awa to hunt up this taniwha.”

She stares hard at his back, stunned, until his shoulders start to shake a little and he shoots her a wickedly smug grin over shoulder.

 

**x**

 

Bit of kids TV this morning paid off brilliantly, he thinks, Giles stuttering for a response in his ear as he soaks in her astonishment. “Not just a pretty face” he mouths, before turning back to the conversation, flavouring his voice with a long-suffering eye roll. “I said hello ya wanker, Dragon Slayer’s just getting ready for us to find her dragon. News?”

Nothing good of course, just more problems with the various teams refusing to toe the party line. Drunk on power most of them, flung into hero status overnight and not yet seeing the truth of their calling. It’ll all come crashing down soon, rebellion building until they break away from this new incarnation of the council to strike out on their own. Good luck to them, he thinks, better off gone if they’re not pulling weight. But it disturbs her, he knows, she trying vainly both to shelter these girls and scare them into sense. Should have lightened her load to share it, but seems only to have changed its form.

 

Hanging up at last, he slips on his coat and they step outside, strolling the short road to the end of the block where a sty and paddock lead to the water. Motifs everywhere in this town, carved faces and spiralling designs on garden fences, car stickers, peeping from curtained window sills, black and red and white, all prickling uneasily at him like crosses. Quickening his step, he realises suddenly that this lingering pre-colonial spiritualism may be partially to thank for the lack of vampire activity the country enjoys.

 

On to the river then, rushing dark beneath the night sky, gurgling and slapping in a hundred directions as it comes up against rocks, banks, trees. Slayer pauses just before the edge, dainty boots on smooth stones, and a frown creeps up as she considers it.

“What now?” he asks, then kicks himself. She’ll let you know when she does mate, back off. Suggestions then? “Could hike down and see if singing man’ll see us?” He’s impossible to get to town, she’d repeated after the meeting that morning, no phone, and refuses to arrange a time for them to visit. But wants his problem solved still.

“Guess it’s a plan,” she shrugs, and turns downriver, edging back from the water a little so he can drop in on her left.

 

 

 

 

  **x**

 

She eyes the house (hut?) speculatively as it comes into view: dark timber weatherboards long denuded of their last flakes of paint, glassless window frames patched over with plywood sheets, rusty chimney flue leaning drunkenly to one side. The grassy path they’ve been following along the river bank crosses under a carved archway, topped by a figure with eyes cut from some sort of shell that shimmers in the moonlight.

Beside her Spike pulls up short, hand going to her elbow to halt her as he hisses,

“I don’t think we should walk in there.”

She lifts a brow, glancing from him to the house and back, but he’s watching the archway, face tight with tension and eyes squinted slightly as they flicker over the details. She lets her weight settle back and waits for an explanation.

“That ain’t just a carving,” he whispers eventually, “And it’s watching us.”

She reaches out, trying to sense whatever it is he’s feeling, and gets zip. So she checks the weapon strapped to her thigh and steps forward again.

“I’m going in, scaredy-vamp, and you can wait here and watch it right back.”

He opens his mouth to object, then snaps it shut and nods towards the house, and she whirls to see an elderly man standing silently on the doorstep.

He’s leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane, and she wonders whether he’s somehow been able to sneak silently through the door, or if he’d been there all along, waiting unseen in the dark under the low porch roof. His skin is wrinkled and thin with age, weathered to match the house, chin deeply tattooed in black with the same lines and curls as his archway.

They stand there awkwardly while the man stares back, impassive and unmoving.

“We’re, umm, from the slayer’s council?” _Nice one_.

“Aye” he says simply.

“Come to ask about your taniwha?”

“Aye.”

“Could we maybe come in?” _Really_ need to practice this.

He finally moves then, hobbling forward on the cane until he reaches the archway, then beckons them closer, looking speculative.

“Can you?” he asks, directing the question not at them but up at the carved face above. Then he nods to himself, plucks a small leaf from the end of his cane and bends slowly to place it on the ground.

“You take the leaf,” pointing at Spike, “You come in peace.”

Cautiously, Spike plucks it off the ground with two slender fingers, and as he straightens she sees him relax slightly.

“Aye,” nods the man, “come, come, sit your bums down.”

 

He leads them back towards the house, easing himself into an old chair and motioning them to sit on the porch floor, where she kneels awkwardly on her feet. God knows what might crawl from all this moss and rotting wood.

 

“Always I have sung her story to her,” he begins. “Always at the full moon she comes to hear it. All this winter, she has not come. I give the song to you now, that it will be remembered. This is the story as I learned.” He turns to the river then, and his voice deepens, taking on a lilting rhythm..

 

“when first we came to this place

a young man went to the river

and brought back a creature

 

and the people asked,

is it

Monster

or

Guardian?

 

and the taniwha named itself:

Lover.

and became a woman

brushing scales aside.

 

But when everyone gathered in the wharenui

eyes might glitter in the dark

a tail would lie in a corner

and sometimes in the morning

there’d be the scratch marks of reptilian claws

 

and the man became afraid:

What wouldn’t come into the light?

What might be hiding in the dark?

 

so the taniwha returned to the river

and lives there still in the shadowy rain.

We call her Mate Kanehe”

 

He stares off at the river silently for several moments, then looks back at them suddenly, as if surprised to find them still there.

“That is all.”

 

 

 


	2. Doorways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics by Tim Finn.

 

 

  **x**

 

“Any clues on the name?” he asks, eyeing his attempt at getting it down phonetically. Have to do for now.

“There's a local dictionary in those books Tui gave me yesterday.” She nods to pile on the bedside table, then brings her bowl of cereal over to join him at the table.

He reads back over his transcript of the story-song, then slides it across for her to double check.

“She doing her job alright then?” Somehow he'd never quite got to the rundown on how her meeting with their council contact had panned out.

“Turns out she’s the NZ slayer’s auntie; that's why she volunteered to be council contact for this section of the country. She was...protective, I think. Their slayer's only fifteen, and Giles must have come on all with the uppity imperialism when he explained what being Chosen meant. She made it very clear that ‘her people never ceded sovereignty to Britain and won't be bossed around by some foreigner’”  -- she starts to laugh -- “ ‘blowing his foo-foo valve’, whatever that means. She warmed up when I asked her to repeat it so I could use it to his face.”

He chuckles. “Good work, luv.”

“So she gave me a few books of local myths and legends, but nothing we couldn't have found at the bookstore. Their history’s oral, so there's no written accounts beyond what's in here, and they don't want any interference, just an account taken in the hopes that the council doesn't go in shooting first if there's ever a sighting. Something about them being ancestors somehow?”

“Well, hopefully it's gone and died of old age; then they won't need to worry.”

Her face drops at that, eyes going first big and sad, then accusatory, both taking him by surprise.

“She has not! She’s just...gone away somewhere. Maybe, you know, she’s found a boyfriend and they’re sitting on a nest of eggs waiting for them to hatch…though I guess that’s never ended well for us. But maybe she just needed more space, to grow, so she swam out to sea!”

“Right, and maybe all the bad guys should give you their names and tragic love stories first so you’ll be unwilling to slay them.”

“Worked for you!” she hmphs and pokes her tongue out. Seems to have a notion that this means she automatically wins an argument with him, but he knows he’s just refusing to dignify her with a response as he watches that moist little pink tip...

 

“Anyway there’s a dictionary. Foo-foo valve’s not in there, I checked.”

Wait, what?

 

**x**

 

They patrol the river banks for the next two nights running, seeing nothing, the exercise feeling pointless. But due diligence is necessary, having come all this way.

So they wander, shallow stretches first, the water rushing and splashing over flat tiers of rock, glittering in moonlight. She slips off her shoes and pads out across the stones, water ice cold but less than ankle deep. In the middle she finds a deep channel, over her head certainly, and peering down at it she can hear pebbles and rock shifting and grinding under the weight and power of so much water, _feel_ the deep bass roar and boom of it through her feet, but there's no sign of any taniwha. So she turns her attention back to the shallows and watches the little fishes that flicker and hover over the stones, rippling in tune with the current.

 

**x**

 

How fey his girl looks tonight, he thinks, watching her skip out there as if walking on water, playful, peculiar, enchanted by the river, enchanting him as ever, until nothing exists but this moment.

She returns to his side eyes sparkling, chattering excitement, and he swoops her up to kiss her soundly, seal it somehow before they continue their hunt.

 

Deeper pools then, bottomless under smooth glassy surfaces, carved into the banks behind the protection of roots or the storm-piled driftwood trunks of huge ancient trees. Dark and mysterious and looming somehow, draining away moonlight and colour. Here there be dragons indeed.

She squats at the edge and stirs idly at the water with a stick, drawing spirals and loops that ripple and turn back on themselves across the surface.

“There's nothing there,” he says, staring past her into the shadows warily.

 

  **x**

 

They’re everywhere, she realises, walking to the corner store for breakfast essentials.

There, in a children’s swimming pool mural.

There, as a logo on that sign.

There, on the side of a totem pole.

There, carved on the arch of a roof.

And yet, nowhere. She snaps photos of each to email back to Giles.

 

Perusing the cereal options, she finds half the shelf made up of ( _New Zealand Weetabix?_ ), boxes proudly emblazoned “ _Kiwi Kids are Weetbix kids”_ And-- different flavors! There's even one with dark red berry chunks scattered through it, and she laughs. Perfect.

She picks it up and something moves in the back corner of the shelf _(mouse?)._ But it's a tiny lizard, small as her pinkie. The shopkeeper glances over and calls out, _lizard? Pop it outside would ya?_ She photographs it too.

 

 

 

 

**x**

 

monster  
or guardian  
or lover  
or maybe  
all of those in one  
but whichever is truth  
can't pin it down  
chasing mist and shadows

 

**x**

 

She reads through his bookmarks in the dictionary while waiting for the phone to ring.

 _Wharenui_ is simple enough, _big house_ , meeting room, hall, communal sleeping space, heart of the village.

 _Taniwha,_ of course: mythical water creature, often looks like a floating log. Very helpful.

 _Powhiri_ she doesn’t recall hearing, but understands as she reads: a ritual _invitation_ and greeting. Visitors pausing at a threshold, a challenge or query called from the home side, a symbolic laying down of weapons or acceptance of a sacred leaf to show peaceful intent. There's more, too: an _exchange_ of songs, the presentation of a gift from the visitors. Oops.

And _Mate Kanehi_ \- ma-te car-ne-he

 _In love_. Romance, besotted, captured and owned by love.

But also, _anguish_ , _torment_ and _heartache_. This language has it right, she thinks. Love hurts.

 

**x**

 

“And the sheep?” asks Giles

“In someone's freezer, probably. If there was anything here, it's not here now.”

“All right. Pack those books for me and anything else you can find on the subject, then head back to Auckland for a 4am flight. You'll be stopping over in Tokyo for 15 hours, networking only, and don't forget to see...”

Spike scoffs to himself, listening in as she twiddles the phone cord and stares out the window. Girl doesn't need more bloody networking. Built for action she is, like himself, for flying fists and clear opponents, not this diplomatic kerfuddling she keeps being sent to. Not that he’d been looking forward to taking on a dragon, mind, but the endless roundabout of meetings and anticipation is making them antsy.

First, though, another night drive along that quiet road, and he smiles at the memory of the last one, her burrowing down in his coat like a kitten, safe and content beside him, warmth radiating out in the dark.

 

**x**

 

The third time she sees his eyes drift over towards the airport's record store she shoves him with a shoulder, and he fakes a stumble that carries him from his post at her side to the entrance, looking back with false affrontedness before throwing her a wink as he steps inside.

He leaves his music everywhere, tapes and cds dropped like tokens. No doubt there's one in the rental car they've just returned, another at the motel, and she's given up chasing them. She wonders if they're intended as prizes for whomever finds them, or some way of marking his territory: “Spike was here”. Most likely though it's just his lack of patience with planning, checking, packing.

 

She waits for her coffee, smiling politely at the barista. They seem to take it seriously here, the rich aroma of freshly roasted beans wafting from cafés and petrol stations alike, milk frothing everywhere and sugar in those little golden crystals. When hers arrives she wraps both hands around the cardboard cup, blowing softly at the surface to cool it, then wanders in to find him.

 

Posture edgier now, he stalks down the row of CDs, a sinuous predator hunting something sure to make her stab out her eardrums. She watches as his fingers flicker delicately over the cases, the rhythm to him, and her tongue slips forward unbidden, moistening her lips hungrily as something begins to pool in her stomach. He looks up sharply then, but she flicks her own eyes down just as quickly, taking a casual sip at her coffee and cursing her easy blush. Then, unable to resist, she tilts the cup slightly further, letting the creamy froth brush onto her top lip, where it lingers a moment before she slowly slides the tip of her tongue out to lap it away.

Looking back up at him, she finds him stock still, nostrils flared and such a look of hunger on his face that she feels cruel for her tease. Hopefully there'll be a chance to make it up on the plane.

 

**x**

 

He's at the counter when it catches his eye on the NZ music display: their beastie again, rising up from the water on the cover of a 45. Picks it up and the title jabs at him, accusing. But it'll give him an excuse to bill this lot to the council, so he adds it to the pile.

 

 

On the plane she shuffles printed emails back into their folder with a frown.

“Summary?” he prompts.

“There's a room booked, somewhere decent, apparently. Giles wants us pick up his mystical doo-dahs, Robin’s trying to get in touch with me over some trouble with a couple of the younger girls, Andrew wants a full report on the taniwha, Japanese team's expecting me at their office at 4pm.”

So many _wants._

“Well, can't do anything stuck on a plane. Get some sleep into you or you'll be showing up yawning with bags under your eyes. I'll scribble something up for Giles-Junior.” She shoots him a glare, but it's lacking its usual heat. “Beautiful bags,” he adds, and that at least gets a quirked smile before she nods wearily and leans back with a sigh.

 

Grabbing a pad, he checklists what they've been able to glean on the taniwha, flicking back through the few printed accounts the local watcher had given them. Probably real, most of these myth-beasts are, lives in the water, looks like a dragon. Attached to their homes, or tied to them maybe, whether that's a muddy trickle of a stream or a whole open harbour. Ancestors somehow, stories of how they'd choose a human mate, descendents becoming great leaders as the taniwha slips back to the water, but that part can't be right. Guardians mostly, lurking unseen until they rise to save someone from a storm, or to pass on some sacred knowledge. Or to carry away a princess, eat a war party. This one gone now in any case, dead or moved on.

Finally he gets to the 45, and studies the cover again before flipping to the back for anything useful in the lyrics..

 

 

 

 

_Dirty Creature come my way,_ _from the bottom of a big black lake_ _  
_ _Shuffles up to my window,_ _making sure I'm awake_ _  
_ _S'probably gonna pick my brain, g_ _ot me in a vice-like grip_ _  
_ _He said "One slip, you're dead"_ _  
_ _Dirty Creature of habit, l_ _ittle horror here to stay_ _  
_ _Anyone in his right mind,_ _would tell it to go away_ _, but  
_ _The river of dread runs deep,_ _full of unspeakable things_ _  
_ _The creature don't mess around,_ _I don't want to mess with him  
_ _I don't wanna sail, I don't wanna sail,_ _I don't wanna  
_ _I don't wanna sail tonight_ _,Dirty Creature's got me at a  
_ _disadvantage from the inside._

_  
_ _Tentacles on the brain, keep me from falling asleep  
_ _I'm rooted to the spot, t_ _he beast don't know when to stop_ _  
_ _Sneaking up from behind, b_ _inds and gags my wits_ _  
_ _Dirty Creature got my head, exactly where he wants it  
_ _I don't wanna sail, I don't wanna sail,_ _I don't wanna  
_ _I don't want to sail tonight,_ _Taniwha is waiting for me  
_ _Just below the surface so bright._ _  
_ _Even as we speak the Dirty Creature springs a nasty surprise_

_  
_ _Dirty Creature knows my type, f_ _ound it in a magazine_ _  
_ _He's seen the look of fear before_ _  
_ _Splattered all over the screen_ _.  
_ _The animal magnet thug,_ _draws me out of myself_ _  
_ _I need a dragon-slayer,_ _who can save me from myself.  
_ _I don't wanna sail, I don't wanna sail_ _  
_ _I don't wanna set sail for the middle of nowhere tonight_ _  
_ _Dirty Creature's got me at a disadvantage from the inside_ _  
_ _I don't wanna sail upon the waters of invention tonight._

 

A shudder runs through him, and he shoves it back in the bag.

 

**x**

 

Landing in Tokyo her watch reads 6pm, while the airport signs shout back 2pm. Dropping Spike off at the hotel, she pulls her hair back and swaps her t-shirt for something clean and starchy before setting out for the meeting with the local team.

 

Japan, at least, retained most of their posted watchers through the destruction of the Council and slaughter by Bringers. Six Travers Originals here today, alongside three of the new generation. They eye her suspiciously, this slayer they've heard so much about: the one who broke all the rules, caused chaos, refused to be tamed. Who averted apocalypse, hellgod, first evil. And now fronts their organisation. She looks each of them hard in the eyes as she shakes hands, challenging and assessing, before moving on to their charges with a softened stance. Just girls, all of them, fresh young faces and bright eyes. She wonders what they see in hers.

They sit around a board table and the watchers bombard her with requests: money, assistance, holidays, retirement savings. And her thinking sullenly, you never gave _me_ anything. But these girls should have something, should squeeze all they can from the world before it's taken from them.

So negotiate, sort need from want, grant luxuries where you can, then run back to the hotel, grab Spike, head out once more.

 

They turn their attention to the list of calls to be made before morning, collecting up the magical and mystical and mundane to bear back to HQ with them:

a jar of herbs, piece of shimmery cloth, a small tuft of soft white fur (kitsune, she’s told, but most likely cat), a little green knife she covets.

 _Pleased to meet you_ and _thank you_ and _we'll take care..._

Unsaid, _good work Giles_ each time they’re asked in without having to request an invitation.

 

It's nearing morning by the time they’re done, but time enough before the flight for her to slow down and look around curiously on the way to the airport. Beside her he's lost in thought, eyes far away, and she wonders if he's been here before, what tales he could tell.

The beginning in China she knows, of course, made infamous there as he threw down his challenge to the slayer line, marking his name with that slashed brow before carving a red river of destruction through the Orient.

But there must be more, beyond the bloodshed, sights seen and creatures met, and she ponders asking, but his eyes are downcast now, so she takes his hand silently instead.

 

**x**

 

run down the list of errands  
runs her down once more  
dragons shadowing our footsteps  
  peering from paper screens,  
  carved along bridges,  
  winding across a kimono

she tenses at each doorway  
(we've always struggled with them)  
reminders each one  
that it's a Demon at her side  
a ‘come in’ and she relaxes  
please, forget again.

 

**x**

 

Fly out stateside but-- not home, redirected first to Cleveland to try to help Robin with the brewing tension in his team.

 

 _“Tenty tenty tenty four hours to go,”_ he whisper-sings at her as they board, “ _but I don't wanna be sedated.”_

“ ‘ _Tenty’,_ Spike?”

“ ‘Sif you can talk. Yeah, four and ten hours. Gimme your watch.”

She looks at him, querying, but he just shakes his hand at her to hurry up, so she holds out her arm. He pries the crown carefully until it's half out, stopping the hands. Then does the same with his own.

“5am now; 5am when we land. In between? That's ours.”

_Let us have some fun, fourteen hours on a plane,_ _  
_ _hurry hurry hurry, before I go insane_

 

**x**

 

Pulling into the parking lot he smirks at the sign over the slayer base: HMC in poncy block letters, _HellMouth Cleveland_ Robin insists, but -- “Hold my coffee,” she deadpans in her best Robin-voice, then giggles and adds, “We _really_ need to come up with a better one.”

“High maintenance chicks?” he suggests.

“Too accurate.”

 

He shakes hands with the man, but the usual masculine posturing is absent, distraction in Robin’s quick grip as he turns to Buffy with mixed irritation and relief. Here at last, our mighty leader, now be sure to set everything to rights and running the way it should be. Spike's own ire rising in response. _She's doing all she bloody can ya tosser, can't you handle your own small portion without expecting her to hold your hand every step of the way?_ No help picking an argument though, so he keeps his mouth shut while Robin blabs on about this that and the other problem as he leads them downstairs.

The girls eye them shyly, newbies still, hero worship and fear alike in their eyes as Buffy tries valiantly to draw them into conversation. Caught always in this greyzone between sister slayer and distant leader, knowing them all too well and yet not at all.

Something shrewder though in the one who corners him, eager eyed as she asks what their plans are, where’ve they arrived from, can they train with them. He draws his duster tighter and settles into a chair.

 

**x**

 

By lunchtime things are easier, the beginnings of familiarity relaxing around the room as the girls start to understand that she’s not so different after all. Perhaps it's the way she lights up when the pizza arrives.

 _Tell me what's going wrong_ she wants to say, but of course that's too direct; she'll gain a better idea by just listening. And fears, too, that she knows the heart of the answer already: they weren't prepared for this, to suddenly wield such power, to be the chosen few. And steadily growing fewer, girls quietly leaving (or _gone_ ). The defections sting when she's trying so hard to make this work for them, but may be for the best, if only they know enough to _stay safe, please._ The others... It cuts deep, every time she feels that ripple of power as another falls. She asks herself again and again: _did I do the right thing? I was just trying to save the world._ And of course, _who?_ Hates to get to know them now, but almost worse when she doesn't get a chance.

She works with them in the training room most of the afternoon, watching as they push ever harder to try and impress. And they do, when they eventually drop the showing off to move the way they're used to: _teams_ of slayers, unpolished certainly, but backing each other automatically, united. There's a glimpse, suddenly, of what they could become, and she thinks, maybe this _will_ work after all.

Eventually she calls a halt, time’s up, say their goodbyes so they can gather up jackets, keys, get on the road. But one of the girls calls out:

“Don't we get a turn?” and it's swiftly taken up by the rest as they demand to see her and Spike ‘give us a _real_ show’. She raises an eyebrow at him waiting by the door, and he nods once, already stepping forward with a gleam in his eye. Yes, she thinks with swelling anticipation, always time for that.

 

**x**

 

They start off slow, a sense of choreography between them as every hit meets empty air and every feint is ignored with a grin. Lessons, of course, for the onlookers, and she points things out between dodges: see how he drops fake tells? See his real ones? See how we go in ready to turn every dodge into a hit?

But before long the heat starts to rise in her, cheeks flushing and commentary falling silent as she's caught in the spell of it, and she dares and teases him, letting him get close enough to feel the soft brush of her hair, the air around her, showing off jauntily as he tries to match her, thinking _god how she can move,_ and then she taunts him in a quiet whisper: _faster, Spike; harder._

A feral growl of raw lust rises in him in response, and with a sudden jab of fear he swallows back the sound as he goes for her in a blur of movement, but she's somehow not where he expects, only empty air, making him fumble as he thinks: _have I lost the steps to our dance?_

And off that thought he surges for her desperately, catching her unexpected with an uppercut he fails to pull, sending her into the wall with a crunch.

He stares at her in shock while she bounces back to her feet with a look of surprise, blood rising on her lip.

Then her eyes narrow, glinting at him, a satisfied smile spreading across her face, and she slides her tongue out sensuously to lick the blood from her lip, whispering in a throaty purr: _there you are._

She comes at him like lightning, and just like that they're dancing again, only harder, faster, sharper, landing hits occasionally and unable to keep from beaming.

Full of relief he whispers back at her: _come for me then, baby._

And _oh_ , the way she moves then.

 

**x**

 

God, did she need that, she reflects as they finally walk to the car, muscles warm and throbbing for the first time in seemingly ever. As did he, now grinning beside her with that cocky loose-limbed swagger she's missed. Things were dicey there for a moment of course, afraid she'd pushed him too much and he'd withdraw, but needing somehow to remind him how strong they are in synchrony, how beautifully they move together. How beautiful a creature he is. And she looks sideways to see him watching her knowingly, stupid vamp senses, so just to wipe that dirty smirk off his face she grabs him by the lapels, shoves him against that ridiculous sign and presses her length against him to breathe into his ear: “ _Hold Me Closer. Help Me Come.”_

 

On the drive home they trade their observations from earlier, teasing apart the issues gleaned and peering at the pieces for solutions. Two girls they didn't meet seem to be at the core of most of it, stirring up dissent between the others and one picking fights every chance she gets. Buffy sighs as the last of her earlier high drains away, knowing she'll have to track down the errant pair and try to move at least the more difficult one (Tyler?) to the Chicago base where she can keep an eye on her properly.

 

**x**

 

Home, thank fuck, place feeling like a castle indeed as they pad inside in the dark. No need for eyesight here. They leave the car unpacked for now to crawl hungrily into bed at last, sinking down with twin sighs of relief.

 

She’s on the kitchen phone when he wakes, voice hushed so as not to disturb him but hissing in irritation.

“Meeting?” he calls out when she replaces the receiver with a soft click. She tiptoes in and crawls over him, feather light on top of the puffy duvet, then pins him under it with hands and knees.

“Stay right here, my little vampurrito. I must go play Council-girl but I want you fresh for patrol tonight. Who knows what's come slithering into our territory while the cat's away.”

She kisses him on the nose, then briefly on the lips, and gets halfway up before he whips his arms out and snatches her back to him to kiss her properly, _deeply_ , before reluctantly pushing her back again and saying, “Ok.”

 

He does stay, for a time, her heat lingering in the bed and the heady scent of her enfolding him with the blanket. Then, remembering their bags still in the rental car downstairs, he rises and heads for the kitchen. _The cupboard was bare_ he thinks, fridge empty but for condiments, pantry not much better. Freezer full of blood, though, and is that a new bag of burba weed on top? Spoils him she does, always these little unspoken gestures. Girl needs to eat too, though, and preferably something more than the convenience store garbage she's been surviving on. Wishes he could do a proper shop run, cook tonight maybe, make her _sit_ and _enjoy._ But the sun shines down mockingly, and as soon as it’s gone she'll wanna be out there hunting.

 

He warms blood, unloads the car, and is carrying the last bag to their apartment when a door opens down the hall and a voice calls out “William?”.

“Miss Jem,” he answers with a shy smile and dip of his head. She's always wrong-footing him, this one, drawing out hidden manners and catching him somehow into revealing too much. She'd collared him the day they moved in, excited to hear a fellow countryman on her floor and endearing herself instantly as she stood in the doorway, plate of fresh scones held out “for that lovely young miss, from her neighbour Jemima.”

“You hopeless flatterer,” she chuckles now, a slight blush rising in her cheeks as she beams at him. Gorgeous, that smile, eighty years of practice lending it a comfortable surety.

“I was hoping you could help me with something? Only, I've a notion to move my stereo over and it's a heavy old thing.”

His eyes flick to the window at the end of the hall, confirming gratefully: afternoon, sun’ll be gone from her place. So in the smoothest Queen's English he proclaims, “Most certainly, Miss, anything you should require,” lifting an imaginary hat and bowing theatrically as she giggles back like a schoolgirl.

She apologises for the size of her record player as he shifts it, “I know it's hopelessly old fashioned to a young man like you, but you just don't get sound like this from those tinny new systems.” It's an HMV, late 70's looks like, and he thinks, _when did these become old?_ Seems like yesterday he was lifting one similar from the glass of a broken store window, latest and greatest on display. He brushes his fingers over the fake wood veneer affectionately as he settles it into place, and tells her she's right, CDs and plastic speakers just don't sound the same.

“Now, you must have a cuppa before you leave.” He opens his mouth to object, ( _don't know how long I can keep this up today),_ but she's already turned away, bustling at the cupboards and continuing to talk without pause while he stands awkwardly, a big black splodge in her pastel yellow kitchen. “Sit, sit,” she says, turning back to him and waving a hand, so he does, and she holds out the biscuit jar and says, “Now tell me something about where you've been these few days.”

 

He thinks of airports and roads and hotel rooms, of dragons and slayers and shadows, then he remembers her skipping out onto the river in the moonlight, so he tells her of that.

 

She pats his hand, bringing him back to reality, and says, _good boy_ , a far away look in her suspiciously moist eyes, and he realises his tea’s gone cold. She takes it from him and sniffs in a breath, breaking the moment, but at the door she stops him with a hand on his sleeve and says, _thank you._

 

**x**

 

“Spit it out already, Slayer, before you fret yourself up enough blow that foo-foo valve.”

She chews her lip for a moment before she answers, not wanting to ruin the evening. They've only been home two days, dammit, and she is so not ready for another round of rented cars and beds. _Especially_ in order to meet a certain Mr Broodypants who may-or-may-not-be-evil-but-hates-Spike-either-way. Urgh.

“Something’s going on in LA.”

 

 


	3. Intrusions

 

 

 

**x**

 

– Sick of driving these shitty rental cars, too many bloody buttons everywhere and no power to them. If you wankers want to keep sending us all over you can damn well get a proper one next time. Make it silver, it’ll match her scythe. Or maybe pastel? Ask Red.

He looks at the bit of paper with a frown. Hardly the uplifting love note he’d hoped for when he picked up a pen, but that was an impossible target anyway. No scrap of paper’s going to smooth over tonight’s emotions for her.

Checks his watch; still two hours to kill before they meet big broody on the edge of town. Hours to  _kill_ , maybe? Got to be something around, no slayers stationed here and the Asshole Team never pulling their weight. He’ll put it to her if she ever comes back from the ladies. First, though, one more line before he faxes this to Giles:

– Your turn for a love note watching-boy, know you’ve been feeling left out.

 

**x**

 

She checks her hair for the umpteenth time, thinking,  _do I look cherished? Do you see how he makes me glow? Will you ever be able to give him the credit such a wonderful wonderful man deserves?_

Reconsiders, again, the wisdom of this trip, and wishes she could have left Spike at home, in bed, her vampurrito again, tucked up safe for her to come home to. Safe from Angel’s taunts: the way shared history shows him exactly where to stick the knife to cause the most pain, while that streak of cold cruelty in him lets him enjoy doing it.

Anger rises then, hot and sour. He should be their best ally in this, a century’s experience of soulful brooding put use at last; but instead his petty jealousy has him insisting ‘ _Spike’s nothing like_ _me_ ’ as he disparages everything Spike does.

No, she thinks, Spike is nothing like  _you_. Great soulful Angel’s not half the man Spike’s  _always_ been.

 

The meeting’s pointless, as it turns out.

Angel sits coldly across a diner table, refusing to give anything away. Answers questions with vague statements that tell them nothing, brushes aside underworld rumours with a flip of his hand. But does confirm his new position as CEO of evil incorporated: “ _it’s just how the game’s played these days.”_

Something dark and shifty emanates from him, and she shuffles him in her head from ‘maybe-soulless-and-evil’ to ‘maybe-has-the-soul-of-a-lawyer-and-therefore-eviler’, anger growing by the minute.

Finally she’s had enough and stands to leave, Spike with her in motion. But Angel rises too, looking at him for the first time all evening and saying,

“Give the vamps a minute together.”

“Like hell,” she hisses.  _And I will send you there again in a second, buddy._ She shifts forward slightly to place herself in front of Spike, but–

“Go on, Slayer, don’t need a babysitter. See you at the car in a mo,” his eyes never leaving Angel’s. She turns enough to search Spike’s face, uncertain, but for once he’s giving nothing away. So she shoots Angel one last hate-filled look of warning -stakes in her eyes- and stalks outside to wait.

 

**x**

 

“Don’t let her come back here.” Angel breaks eye contact to cast a glance at the door just closing behind her.

“Mate, I don’t  _let_ her go anywhere,” he growls, “She points, I drive. Have you got something to spill here, or we just having family time?”

“That’s it.” Angel frowns, slowly moving that giant brow of his. “Just don’t let her come back.”

Spike pulls his lips back in a sneer. “ _Very_  fucken’ helpful as always,” starting towards the door.

He’s almost reached it when Angel says quietly, “You’ve already killed her you know.”

And despite himself, knowing better, he finds his feet slowing to a halt and his head turning back as he pauses to listen, to… ( _retaliate_?)

“You’ve lost her and you don’t even see it. She used to sing, you know that? Painting her nails and doing her hair. She used to come home from patrol, flip a switch at the door and leave the horror behind. You think she can do that when it’s waiting at home for her too?

I look at Buffy now and all I see is the stain of your nightmares. I  _know_ what haunts you, boy, because I see them too. Only, I loved her enough to walk away. But the girl I loved is gone, Spike, and it’s only a matter of time before her body’s gone too.”

_Not true,_ he tells himself, eyes flickering across the ground around his feet as he scrabbles for the image of her on the plane earlier, laughing at his fooling around beside her, her hand coming up to – with naked and broken nails.  _How could I have missed that?_ And a cold rock plummets in his stomach.

 

**x**

 

She stops at the first window by the door, trembling on her toes and torn with indecision when she sees him pause.  _Come on, Spike,_  she urges silently,  _give him another one of those sneers and walk out._  But he’s still, listening, and as she watches seems to deflate, shrinking into his duster, small and forlorn and  _lost_.

 

**x**

 

A small meteor rockets past him in a flash of gold, hurtling into Angel hard enough to send him several meters back and straight to the ground with it still on top. She goes at him like an alleycat, a whirling dervish of righteous fury that jabs and claws mercilessly as he tries desperately to cover his face, her small fists flying in impossibly fast to split open an eyebrow, rake gouges in a cheek, smash a lip on a fang, and hissing furiously all the while through teeth clenched and bared,  _you piece of shit how bloody dare you._

_Never_ , he thinks, has he seen her move like this.

Then she’s off, just as fast, marching to the door with her hand shooting out for him as she nears; stunned, he puts his own out automatically, and she says, face still rigid,  _we’re leaving, Spike,_  and her small fingers grip him like a vice as she tugs him in her wake, out through the door, still staring back at Angel somehow lying flattened and bleeding on the floor.

 

**x**

 

Neither says anything on the way back to the airport, her panting fury slowly easing down into the swooshing of tires on wet roads. He shoots occasional glances at her, face a mixture of admiration, puzzlement, and perhaps a little fear, before looking back to the road to stare out with wondering astonishment once more.

 

He chooses a spot beneath a tree at the far end of the lot, switches off the ignition, and slowly leans back in his seat. They sit, listening to the quiet, the ticking of the cooling engine, the drips of rain from the leaves above, until the silence grows calm.

“What did he say to you?” she asks softly.

He turns to face her then; but the shadows hide everything save one eye, peering into hers.

“He said we shouldn’t come back.”

 

**x**

 

_…rooted to the spot, t_ _he beast don’t know when to stop_ _  
_ _Sneaking up from behind, b_ _inds and gags my wits_ _  
_ _Dirty Creature got my head, exactly where he wants it…_

_…Dirty Creature knows my type, found it in a magazine_  
He’s seen the look of fear before  
Splattered all over the screen.  
The animal magnet thug, draws me out of myself…

 

So many girl’s coats  
Babydoll Pink and Soft Blush  
Strawberry Girl and Vanilla Silk  
More layers though, add  
Emerald Glitter and Sunshine  
But still missing parts. So  
Scarlet Claw and Chrome and Moonlight  
Mi amor  
And, hesitantly,  
Midnight Black.

 

**x**

 

Landing back in Chicago before sunrise, she calls HQ from the airport to organise an early morning meeting on the LA situation.  _Let me dump this baggage before home, please._

He slips into the pharmacy while she stands on hold in the phone booth, and she watches him across the distance, hands in his pockets, still holding his coat close. Angel might be the one sporting bruises, but the blackness has rubbed on here.

 

In the half light of dawn they slink into HQ, place hushed and dim at this hour with just a few of the night staff left about. She heads straight for the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and opening the cupboards in search of coffee.

 

_Let me._

he says, taking the jar from her, and she leans back against the bench to watch as he pours and stirs and presses a steaming mug into her hands, and she brings it to her face, closes her eyes, and inhales deeply, scent of it hot and rich and sweet, soaking into her, and she thinks, how does he always make it so much better than me?

looks up at him and says gently,

_thank you._

 

He pulls little bottles from his pocket then, holding up a spread of nail polish in pastel pinks and peaches, green and gold, silver and red and of course black, and says,

_let me?_

and her eyes prickle, so she just nods.

 

She sits at the small table, and he sits sidelong in the seat next to hers, placing her left hand on his knee while her right wraps around her coffee.

 

And he lines up the little bottles and says,

_which one?_

and she doesn’t know, so she says,

_you choose for me._

 

He files her nails, smoothing away ugly broken ends, and then paints them with practiced long clean strokes.

she watches his fingers, long and beautiful, precise and musical, and she watches the way his fingers hold hers.

she brings down her second hand, and as it dries on his lap he paints his own, and she watches this too.

and they sit with their hands together on his lap, watching them until they dry, hers soft pastel pink and his soft pastel peach, then she looks at him and says

_thank you._

 

And a voice calls her name from the hall and the spell is broken, but later she sits at the meeting table and she strokes them, these perfect glossy nails, and she says, “ _couldn’t get any information out of him_ ,” and he says, “ _chasing shadows,_ ” and Giles says, “ _we’ll keep trying to get someone in undercover,_ ” and she just strokes her nails, and smiles to herself.

 

**x**

 

home  
to the living room  
discard bags and footwear  
– open the curtains I say,  
– let the last of the morning sun in here.  
chase away shadows  
go sit in your favourite chair  
my gilded goddess  
let me watch you from the doorway.  
light switch poor metaphor but  
pray pretend a little longer please  
i’m afraid of the dark.

 

_.._ _Dirty Creature of habit, l_ _ittle horror here to stay_ _  
_ _Anyone in his right mind,_ _would tell it to go away_ _, but  
_ _The river of dread runs deep,_ _full of unspeakable things_

_I don’t wanna sail, I don’t wanna sail, I don’t wanna  
I don’t want to sail tonight,Dirty Creature’s got me at a  
disadvantage from the inside.._ __  
Tentacles on the brain, keep me from falling asleep  
Taniwha is waiting for me  
Just below the surface so bright…

 

**x**

 

_Sleep_  she tells him,  _one of us should get the luxury. I’ll be plotting my spectacular escape from the boredom-go-round in time for patrol._

When she gets home at dusk though the place is empty, bar a note on the desk:

_– You sleep. Had my turn, I’ll cover patrol and check the bars for any whispers to add to last night’s fiasco._

There’s little hints around the place of an afternoon spent pacing and fidgeting, and she thinks, _don’t hide, please._

The bed’s freshly made, too starchy and clean to be comforting, so she sits on the edge and strokes the duvet, waiting in the dark.

 

**x**

 

The falling wakes him, or maybe the landing, or maybe it’s neither, but the way the reality of  _awake_ snaps into being as he inhales at the impact and fairly  _tastes_  her from a discarded shirt on the floor.

He keeps his eyes closed -just in case- and sucks in a deep breath, holding her in, then squints them open warily to confirm: living room floor, rolled off the couch, must have nodded off.  _Only dreams._ Lets it out in a slow shudder, gameface with it.  _Not dreams. Nightmares._

_Memories._

Feels the lingering confusion still, discombobulated by flashing images in black and red.

Don’t seem right when the sun sits a few metres away, beams highlighting spiralling dust motes over the sill.

_…bodies arranged around a band rotunda, silent audience for Dru’s performance. A little boy’s hand kept firm in his while he watches, worships. The boy sniffling, long past trying to escape this unfathomable horror, and him shaking him for quiet, a quick *_ _jerk*_ _without looking, and the boy’s arm *_ _breaking*_ _small bones_ _*snapping*_ _so effortlessly, shoulder *_ _tearing*_ _in its socket, and him *_ _looking*_ _then, thinking, huh, thought you were made of stronger stuff, before *_ _turning away*,_ _back to Dru._

Feels like it’s spreading out from him, suffusing the room and swallowing up each item as it goes – for a moment he sees it before him, a seeping stain of red, taking their rug, the coffee table, her shoes; then he shakes his head and it’s gone.

Been catching him unawares this week, avoided sleep at nights turning into accidental afternoon naps that fill with horror until he wakes with a jerk.

 

(   Lies  
in the dark  
holding her  
come in gentleman  
hide your true face under  
but  
you’re the monster in her bed. )

 

Stupid, letting Angel fluster him. Always did know just where to aim.

 

**x**

 

He going to give, she knows, everything building higher and higher as he scrabbles to hold it back. She’s no good at this though, not having his gift for pulling out just the right words.  
But maybe it was never the words. Maybe it was the way those eyes followed her, stripped and bared her, held and cradled her.  
Maybe it was him always at her side, slipping into step no matter what dance she led.  
So she watches him, and pets and fusses at him, and tries to make him see that when everything finally falls apart she’ll be there, ready to lead him back.

 

The first bit of solid information comes to light in an evening phone call from Giles:

Demon clan leaders from three regions are quietly moving into LA, allies all to Wolfram & Hart.

Angel plotting something? Or the lawyers finally had enough and preparing to up the stakes?

Wes can’t be reached. She chews her lip, considering. “Get Robin’s team on standby. If something’s going to blow we need to be ready to shut it down at the gate.”

Robin himself though turns out to be in Europe this week, having volunteered to accompany a sensitive delivery ( _nothing_ to do with Faith being there of course). She sighs again.

“We’ll drive down tonight and prep them. He can join them in San D with Faith and her team. And see who else is close? I am  _not_ getting roped into this one.”

 

**x**

 

Arriving in Cleveland again, they make a pitstop at the gas station around the corner from HMC. He fills the tank, then lounges in his seat while she goes to inside to load up on snacks and energy drinks.

He’s just leaning over to pull the door closed when everything lurches, ground shifting sharply beneath the car to send cds and weapons sliding across the dash, and a roaring boom wrents the air.

His head whips up, eyes going wide in panic, but she’s already racing from the store, hair flying behind her as she dives into the passenger seat.

“Drive” she says, then looks blankly at the giant gummy snake clutched in her hand like a stake.

 

**x**

 

There’s a dead girl in the street as they screech to a halt outside HMC, glazed eyes staring above blood-covered torso and–  -don’t look closer. The junior watcher – David, she thinks – stumbles from a broken doorway, a girl with him, clinging to one another and faces twisted with fear. Behind them what’s left of the building creaks and groans, thick black smoke curling from one window.  _What the hell happened?_

She grabs the girl to ask, but it’s maybe-David who answers, watcher training kicking in as he reels off his report: explosion in the gas lines, nothing mystical or demonic or to be fought, caused by a fire in the basement filing room, building mid-evacuation for the fire when it blew, suspicions Tyler had something to do with the fire–

He stops there suddenly, face paleing even further, and she jerks him to look at her before issuing instructions:  _go to the evacuation point, roll call, triage the wounded. Keep everyone clear in case the gas is still leaking, be team leader until someone higher shows up._  He opens his mouth to object, then snaps it shut again and nods quickly, grasping the girl firmly by the arm and marching towards the floodlit empty lot across the street.

She looks around for Spike and finds him crouched over the dead girl, hand hovering in the air above her cheek.

Too close.

But no time to waste. She snaps his name and takes a step towards the building, and he’s at her side and then taking the lead as she orders him:

_Deep breaths._

_Be my canary, be my bloodhound; point me away from death and towards the wounded_.

Don’t you fall apart yet. But knowing he won’t, not with her cupped in his hands.

 

**x**

 

beyond dreams once; beyond nightmare now  
just a little girl, lying cold and alone on the street.  
did she wish for it? does  _She_?

deep breaths, Slayer says, so that she might also  
vamp out then, all-the-better-to-smell-you-with-my-dears  
go back to your river after, once she’s safe

 

**x**

 

Four girls they’ve lost in the end, Tyler one of them (found down below at last, where she’d tried too late to undo her stupid snap decision). Three more in the hospital, maybe-David watching over them.

She’d tried to comfort the rest, but they’d stared back warily, (accusingly?) at this emotionless stranger with her cold platitudes, until her words petered out and she’d turned on a heel and left.  _Nothing more to be done there._

 

**x**

 

He drives them to a hotel on the outskirts of town – daylight to be waited out before they can continue for home. Rueing it. Restricted by him again, when she needs to leave this place behind.

She’s quiet, shuttered away within herself as she collects keys and pays money and closes the door behind them.

He hovers at her back as she stands at the bench staring blankly at the dark window. Brushes her shoulder with his fingers, tender, tentative, and she forces out a small smile, quick and tight, before staring out at the night again.

_Let me in_  he wants to say, but there’s that doorway again.

Her reflection stares back at them from the glass, cold and alone.

_Let me warm you_  he thinks  
none of my own to offer  
but let me find you some  
know I was all wrong before  
but let me try again.  
no cold stone crypts for you luv  
 _let me wrap you in something soft this time._

So he leads her away to the bed, pulling back the cover to sit her down.

Dust and soot smear her skin, hair, jacket, and he can still scent the blood from all those girls, but buried now in the acrid tang of smoke. Time was he’d have licked her clean, licked her everywhere, fucked and fought in the mess then made more, seams tearing, nails clawing red streaks into flesh, everything shattering around them.

Now though…what did gentlemen do in this situation? Victorian manners no help here. Should he take her to the bathroom– no, not there.

_…river of dread runs deep,_ _full of unspeakable things_ _  
_ _The creature don’t mess around,_ _I don’t want to mess with him…_

She looks at him then, searching his face;

– where are you?

she says

and he thinks,

_standing on a cliff wondering how to reach the river._

 

**x**

 

She looks up at him; searching his face as he stands awkwardly beside her, frowning to himself.  _Where are you?_ she wonders aloud, and pulls at his coat to sit him beside her.

“Bite me?” she asks, thinking only:  _remind me that I’m still alive to bleed, that you’re still here to feed._

But he freezes, an ominous tension filling the room. Then rolls off the bed, a swirl of leather flying to the door. Pausing there he looks down at the ground, voice flat to say, “Don’t play these games with me.” And walks out, closing the door with a click behind him.

 

**x**

 

He gets as far as the end of the parking lot then gives it up with a sigh, sinking down to sit on the curb. Would go for a drink or ten, but only a few hours till sunrise. Can’t leave her worrying all day. Can’t leave her. Shouldn’t be out here sulking, and her in there on her own.

He looks up to find he’s already back at their door, moth to her flame as always.

Opens it to find her sitting quietly on the bed, hugging her knees and looking suddenly so very small. He shrugs off his duster on the way over; then eases down next to her carefully, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stares up at the pockmarked ceiling.

“Get some sleep, luv. Too tired to fight.”

myself tonight. Won’t let him hurt you though, however you may ask.

And she folds herself into his side gratefully, heat suffusing him, soothing him, (not cold still warm after all), so he wraps his arms around that small form and lets himself nod off too.

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Mountains

 

 

 

 

        **x**

 

“I'm not going to LA. I’m not going to  _California_. Not now, not ever.” She closes her eyes, presses her palm into her forehead. Turns the phone into her shoulder, muffling Giles’ protestations. Knows, of course, that she will. As does he. A half team of shell shocked girls their only option right now, and she can't send them off alone to wait for who-knows-what. She  _wants_  to take a step back, unravel last night, regroup, hell, at the very least get more than the two hours sleep she's just been dragged from. But the hits just keep coming, as always.

“Look,” she finally says, breaking back into the conversation, “I'll be there later this morning. But for Christ's sake tell Faith to get a move on.”

Hanging up she stares down at the phone a while, reluctant to face Spike. To ask. Feels, lately, like all she's done.

“Get a move on Slayer, I ain't waiting all day.”

She looks up to find him at the door, twirling the keys on a finger and cocking an eyebrow in challenge. All right then. They can do this. Whatever this is. Somehow.

 

She picks four of the Cleveland girls in the end, telling them to grab a change of clothes and meet at the airport. They've scrummaged tickets for an earlier (pre-dawn) flight, so suck it up and keep moving.

She calls Giles again before boarding, but he's got nothing new:  _forces are gathering._

The girls are quiet on the flight, murmuring together in their little group before falling asleep one by one as the night's events catch up with them. Spike too is subdued, but his quiet feels restless,  _dis_ quieted, and when he shifts position for the millionth time she smiles at him tightly, trying to say,  _me too._

The news greets them at landing: all later flights from Cleveland cancelled. Several overseas airports on ice; Faith's team mysteriously stranded for the night. As are those in Rome and Japan. The message feels clear.

  
        **x**  


Quick dash between vehicle and hotel entry, then he can ditch the blanket spectacle to slip into the background while she speechifies. He takes position by the door, lieutenant at post on her back once more, and there’s a comforting familiarity in it for them both: no matter the situation,  _this_ can be trusted without question or thought.

She looks all fearless leader now, coldly aloof, head high, orders tersely delivered. At first the girls quail slightly, but then this rag-tag bunch of waifs are forced to pull together properly to withstand the assault, in themselves and as a team. A sullen resentfulness kindles, ready to sharpen into payback on the world. Suddenly he's not watching over a group of tired girls, but standing in a room full of slayers.

‘Course, they never see how much it pains her; the tiny flicker of a cringe that ripples through her with each command. They don't see it hidden in her eyes:  _please, they're just girls._

  
        **x**  


She tries Wes’s line at WR&H (no answer), Giles back at HQ (no news), a dingy little demon bar in downtown LA (unusually busy, don't know why but making the most of it).

At 3pm the phones stop ringing. She reaches out for Chicago, LA, London, Rome, Japan; friends, family, allies, strangers. Nothing but silence on every line. She turns to the TV - static.

“ _Slayer”_ he says -breaking her endless redialing with the tension in his low voice as he crosses quickly to window- “ _the sun's gone”._

He pulls up the blinds and she sees it's not quite true: there's a dark grey patch of cloud where the sun  _should_ be, enough light struggling through to cast the city in a colourless gloom, but the rest of the sky hangs a heavy black, starless and  _thick_ somehow.

She adjusts her pockets and picks up the scythe. “Is it safe for you to come out in?”

He doesn't meet her eyes as he answers.

“Should be.”

Moving outside, the streets are hushed, everyone hurrying for home with their eyes firmly down. The five of them watch her watching the city - waiting to be told what to do.

_How do I fight a shadow?_

Start by shaking off the shudder at the memory stirred. Then...right, well, get a better look at it maybe. She sends Spike to find transportation, stolen if necessary: without the phone lines their plastic cards are just that. The girls back to the hotel, instructions to  _stay by the phone_ and  _eat something._  Stay where I can find you, keep your weapons ready. Then stands waiting at the curb, weapon in hand, feeling out of place and sorts.

He pulls up in an older black ute, and climbing in she eyes the hack job of torn wires dangling from the ignition, ready to call him her MacGyver, but he's turned away, watching out of the windows with a twitchy restlessness, and the remark dies on her lips.

“Tallest hill around here?” she says instead.

“S Mountain-- Cowles. Highest point in the city. ‘S’bout twenty minutes off, then a couple of miles hike to the top, but you'll get a 360° view from up there.”

“Get us there.”

  
        **x**  


Eye the shadows above then my own dark sleeves, then back to the dim road.  _Are we chasing what I've hidden?_ Look to her briefly, look for the sun.  _Has my shadow dimmed your light? If I step over into darkness will you accompany me? Or will you shine your light in the corner and find a monster there?_

_...Dirty Creature come my way,_ _from the bottom of a big black lake_ _  
_ _Shuffles up to my window,_ _making sure I'm awake_ _  
_ _S'probably gonna pick my brain, g_ _ot me in a vice-like grip_ _  
_ _He said "One slip, you're dead"_ _ha._

“If we don't learn anything soon we'll have to go to LA,” she says.

Don't think I should come. Don't say it though. Don't know what to say.

_..._ _Dirty Creature's got me at a disadvantage from the inside _  
__I don't wanna sail upon the waters of invention tonight._..._

“Spike,” she says softly, “Are you with me?”

Poker face without game face please. Use’ to hide behind the fangs, now I'm hiding from them.

  


so I close my eyes

hide the fear behind my lids

just for a second.

 

all it was.

all it took.

 

then:

 

_...Even as we speak the Dirty Creature springs a nasty surprise..._

 

slamming crunching squealing

tortured metal screaming

tumbling spinning crashing and

 

stopping **.**

  
  
  
  


 

 

  
  


He blinks his eyes, stunned momentarily either by the swift exit via windscreen or the impact with the street. Thinking, _I didn't wanna sail tonight._

Blood next, the scent running hot and fast through the air, overpowering burnt rubber and leaking petrol.  _Slayer blood_ , he realises, and stumbles up to see her on the ground in front of their mangled car, slack and still and shirt drenched red.

And thinks, haven't I been here before? Except hadn’t known then. Couldn't fathom that the world could still exist without her in it. Learnt better, those 147 days, as things just kept on stubbornly existing when they should by rights have crumpled to dust.

But that drumbeat still thuds through him this time, so they can't be dead.

His hands shake as he peels up her shirt, fingers trembling uncontrollably as they feel out the shallow cut across her ribs, and the blood spreads onto them

covers them

stains them

burning hot

and he's frozen

staring blindly at them

when she whispers his name

and then,

\- are you ok?

 

he meets her eyes

finally

probing

seeking reassurance that they're really not  _cold and empty and dead at the foot of a tower,_ he hasn't killed her, not this time,

 

And shakes his head slowly

\- no.

\- Buffy, I'm not.

  
        **x**  


_‘Is there something I can do?’_ hangs on her tongue, but she doesn't voice it. Doesn’t need to ask.

She reaches for him instead, covering up those hands with one of hers, pulling his head down to her chest and pressing him there tightly, feeling her heart thud against his cheek. He lets out a sob of relief, then  
i’m-so-sorry-i-shouldn’t-i-didn’t-i-just-i-wasn't-how-  
before the words become garbled as he cries in earnest, heaving sobs against her breast, and she lets go those hands to stroke him softly as she murmurs,

\- hush, hush now love. we will be.  
  


A misty rain begins to fall. They need to move, she realises, lying in the street as they are. And fast, too, if they're to avoid being run over. She nudges at him and he sits slowly, swiping a hand at his face ineffectively before staring in confusion at the pink smear all over it, blood and tears and rain. She takes it with hers, tugging him gently to rise with her; not feeling stable enough to pull him up alone but able to shove aside the throbbing of head-meets-pavement to get them to their feet.

Once there he stares at the car, perplexed by the wrong angle and scattered parts, the wall that appeared from nowhere. So she leads him by the hand, him looking back in confusion still, and she says,  _forget it,_ and eventually they make it up the hill.

  
        **x**  


Somehow they're on the hilltop. She ignores the view, pushing him to sit at a bench. Lets go his hand finally, to cross her arms and fix him with that penetrating stare. Can  _feel_ it without needing to look, slicing through the darkness.

“Tell me.”

_Why try to hide anymore? Caught red handed._ The edge of a hysterical giggle slips from him before he drags his hands through his hair, hard, reining it back in. Heaves a sigh that seems to drag all the skittering out and replace it with a bone-deep weariness.

Where to start.

“I never meant to come back,” he says eventually, speaking to the ground. “After the trials. Thought of it was all that kept me going through it, but as soon as it was done I knew, truth came clear, couldn't ever be good for you after all. But hellmouths being hellmouths, the place sucked me back anyways. And then there was a place for me, in the end, something I could do, something I could be, for you. For once I could shoulder some of your weight, and you’d made me strong enough to do it. Then you called me back to you, and I climbed out of that crater clutching your hand feeling like the luckiest man on earth.

But, pet, then the sun came up.”

He looks up at last, needing her to see the truth in his face, slipping out his teeth with a soft crunch.

“Not a man. Never will be. Can do it sometimes, sure, tease out a smile and set you right again. But sooner or later I'm gonna get you down. God, the things I've done... You'll finally look in that corner one day, and you’ll see the monster, sucking you down and draining you dry. You give so much, everyone asks  _so damn much_ , and here I am taking more because I can't hide my tail.”

 

“Spike,” she says with a sigh of relief, reaching out to cup his cheek, “It wasn't the monster that scared that man. It was the not knowing.  _That's_ the moral.

And that's what scares me. All those years I spent fighting my destiny, the hellmouth, the council. And I won.  _We_ won. But won what? We're  _still_ fighting, except now girls are dying because  _I_ made them Chosen _._  Everyone's looking up at me but I don't know where I'm leading us, and there's no one I can ask. There  _is_ no crack team anymore. There's just  _me--_ ”

Her voice breaks, and suddenly his every move becomes simple again as he wraps her in his arms.  
“ _Hush_ yourself, luv. ‘S not just you, yeah? Still got your back.”

She squeezes him back, drawing in a deep shaky breath before continuing.

“There's just me, and  _you_. Dragged around behind me, desperately trying to fill every role. Champion, man, vampurrito, poet, canary, bloodhound, dance partner and so much more besides. I’m so tired, Spike. So damn tired. But I  _do_  know what's in my corner. It's you. Always, there's you. Time and time again you lift me back up, and I let you because  _I_  know you're strong enough for it. You were never just a vampire, and you’re not just a man.

Am I just a girl? Just a slayer? What am I, Spike?”

The words are soft benediction flowing across his tongue. “ _Buffy. Always, Buffy.”_

“That’s right. And you always remind me. I know you're afraid, and things are tough right now.  _But we don't end here._ We just have to keep struggling through, believing that there's something brighter on the other side.   
I know what your tail looks like; I’ve touched it. And you know mine.

So stop hiding. We’re at home in the shadows, because we stand there together and we  _face_ the darkness,  _wherever_  it lies.”

  
        **x**  


They hold each other quietly until he pats her on the back and draws back to look her in the eyes. His are calmer now, focused and steady on her face.

“How'd I do?” she says, “I could have another go if you like. Know I'm not word-girl but I've got plenty more adjectives to throw your way, beautiful creature mine.” He shakes his head, smiling.

“You'll just be inflating my ego then.”

“Who said they were all good ones?”

“ ‘m sorry though. ‘bout the car and all. Never wanted-”

“Shush. It's done. You screwed up - made a very  _human_  mistake by the way - but that's just what people do. We're still stumbling forward.”

“Yeah, well, more than human, ain't I? Won't let it happen again.”

“Yes, you will. And so will I. Things aren't ever easy, with me. Only..” she looks down, biting her lip hesitantly, suddenly afraid, then spits it out in a rush. “Is this what you want? I never asked if you wanted--”

He grabs her jaw, cutting her off and turning her head back to him. “Shush that blathering. There's only one thing I ever want.” He strokes the edge of her lip with a finger, making her smile slightly. His eyes soften and he smiles gently back. “There, see now? Easy after all. It don't matter where you lead me, Buffy, only that you are.

So come on then, let's look to those shadows.”

  
        **x**  


She frowns out at the horizon, lips pursed, then announces “We'll have to go up to LA. Whatever this is, that's where it's aiming.”

He watches the looming blackness, trying to pick up anything more useful than  _unnaturally_   _dark clouds. Blackest to the north._

Mind keeps drifting though, back to what she'd said.

“Slayer,” he says eventually, “You think she stopped coming because she gave up on her name?” She turns to him and lifts a brow, cocky.

“Oh, so now I'm right am I?”

“Ha, ha.” He pulls a face.

“No. I think she finally stopped hiding and reclaimed the rest of it. She’s  _Mate Kanehe the Taniwha_ , and she's out there somewhere playing monster and guardian and lover in one.”

“I hope so.”

 

 

 


	5. Allied

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I hope so”.

 

 

And then, she’s  _there_.  
  


 

 

  
  


There's no prickle at her slayer’s sense; no warning sound, nothing moves. One moment it's her and Spike alone on a mountain top, then she blinks and the mound next to them is revealed: a great beast sitting placidly, staring out at the sky. She risks a quick glance at Spike - confirming he too is staring wide eyed in surprise - and almost expects it to be gone before her eyes can travel back, just a mound of dirt and trick of the shadows. But the creature’s still there. As she stares it turns its great head slowly towards them, looking calm and somehow benign, watching them in return from massive eyes that swirl and shift in every colour of the ocean.

She's the size of a large car, with a tapering tail almost as long again and wide-set limbs ending in sharp claws.  _How on earth did we not notice?_

“Slayer,”  he whispers,   “Think we'd better make friends?”

She takes a step forwards, motioning with a palm for him to stay back, unsure whether she's protecting him or trying not to startle the creature. That leaves her scythe-bearing hand prominent though, so she takes it in both hands and sets it down in front of her carefully, crossways and blade inwards, least offensive side possible towards the creature.

It watches, motionless, expression unreadable.

_A gift_  she remembers,  _meant to offer a gift_. She feels through her pockets, coming up empty but for a scrap of folded paper.

She fingers it for a moment - reluctant to part with this one - then sets it on the ground in front of the scythe. The mouth opens wider then, rows of glittering teeth as big as stakes, and she feels Spike close up the space at her back as an impossibly long tongue glides out, crossing the distance to pick up the slip of paper and pull it back in before the gaping maw closes again. The eyes blink at last, then the taniwha moves one forelimb out to set down a clawed hand towards them.

“ _shake hands?”_  Spike whispers

“No,” she says with a grin, “Hop on. It's my turn to drive.”

  
        **x**  


The taniwha’s skin is rough and hard; almost indistinguishable from the bark of a tree, and crossed everywhere by the deep furrows of her pattern. It gives off no heat or sense of movement as he places his palms on it's shoulder and he thinks,  _maybe it's just a log after all,_ but Buffy leans down to grab him by the shoulder and haul, so he swings his leg over and suddenly he's astride the creature and  _now_ he feels it, power surging beneath him like a deep river, calm on the surface but with the strength to tear trees from the ground and shatter rocks. Hidden depths indeed.

He looks up at her in front, seated lightly but firmly on this strange foreign creature, hair flying free to halo her with sunshine, strength and surety in her every line again. And he looks at his hands, one resting softly on the back of this mounted goddess, the other gripping the taniwha’s rough skin, nails still flecked with  _Mi Amor_ peach, and he thinks,  _all of us more than our pieces._

“Looks like a pretty crack team to me, luv.”

She turns her head back, beaming at him, “Not just cracked?”

He grasps her thigh and pulls himself in closer to whisper, “Go on then, Slayer. Show me how you ride.”

He expects jostling as the taniwha rises, but instead it simply  _flows_  forth, pouring itself smoothly downhill along the rocky trail then onto the tarmac at the bottom. In minutes they're approaching the downtown again, slowing as they encounter cars. He adjusts his weight, giving Buffy room to move in case of trouble, but no one seems to take any notice as they weave and wend between the traffic.

On reaching the hotel they glide to a halt on the grassy turning circle before the entrance, and he follows Buffy's lead in sliding off her back. They watch - tense - as a man hurries past, but again his eyes glance past the three of them without pause. Huh.

“I'll watch Marty while you run up, jus’ in case someone opens their eyes.”

“ _Marty?”_ she says.

“Well yeah, gotta have a pet name now don't she? Can't keep the whole formal  _Ms-Marty-Carnahe-the-tarnawee_ after that jaunt.”

She shakes her head at him, grinning, then dashes for the doors.

  
        **x**  


“BUFFY!” jumps at her halfway across the foyer, and she whirls to a halt, reaching for the scythe on her back before locating ( _Wesley?)_ rushing towards her.

“Oh thank fuck,” he says, pulling up several meters short at her stance, and the expletive is as telling as his rumpled and bloodied appearance. “Didn't know where else to go, we've just been hoping someone might have made it through the obstructions.”

“We who?”

“Fred and I. She’s upstairs, door knocking. I've ah, hurt my foot, so I was watching the doors. Which teams are with you?”

A petite brown-haired girl comes running up to Wes then, cutting in with a burst of,  “Buffy thank heavens, I tell you this place is just too big to know where to start so I'm so glad Wes’s found ya -nice to finally meet you by the way- now can we skip to the part where you go save Angel?”

“Fred?” she asks Wes, and he nods. “Right. Get upstairs and you can tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  


The four girls open the door cautiously, then a ripple of relief runs through the room. She hadn’t meant to leave them so long, but they've done well, still looking composed and alert. She directs one to grab the med kit and take care of Wes’ bloodied foot, puts the kettle on for the more critical form of watcher first aid, and is just scrummaging for teabags when Spike slips in.

“Marty?” she asks.

“Take a look yourself,” he smiles, flicking a thumb to the window. She frowns at him, but he just watches with that cheshire cat grin of his, so she looks out. She scans the driveway closely, but Marty’s not there. She opens her mouth to say so - and accuse him of losing a second ride in one night - but he gets in first. “Look properly Slayer. In the water. Right about where you parked her.”

She stares hard at the fountain pond in the middle of the turning circle, looking around the rocky statue for any sign of a hiding taniwha, then suddenly it hits her: she's staring right at her, motionless as stone in the small pool. He laughs then, seeing her catch on.

“How does she..?”

“Buggered if I know. One second I was watching you walk off, her still brushing my fingers, then I looked back and she'd gone. Had me in a right panic until I walked into her not a foot further back. Reckon she coulda been watching us for a while, since NZ even.”

She stares a moment longer, sure she sees an eye gleaming back now, then turns to Wes.

“So, am I gunning for Angel, Wolfram & Hart, or both?”

“Neither.”

  
        **x**  


“So let me get this straight: Angel somehow scoops the big promotion this Lindsey dude wants, he decides to take Angel out and crown himself LA’s Most Evilist in one foul swoop by drowning half the city? I feel like we're missing half the plot here.”

Bet we are. Wonder what big ugly did to  _really_  piss him off, cause you'd think he'd slept with his girlfriend.

“They've ah, clashed previously. Angel fought against him when Lindsey was heading a team at Wolfram & Hart two years ago, and eventually ran him out of town. We hadn't heard of him again until last month, when he popped back up and tried to lure Gunn to his cause. He turned him down, got two broken legs for his trouble, and Wolfram & Hart shuffled him to Rome for 8 weeks ‘recuperation’.

Lorne went over three days ago to check up on him. We've been trying to get a bead on Lindsey ever since, but it turns out an office full of lawyers aren't much use for the groundwork.

Then communications go down, flights are cancelled and Angel runs off looking for Lindsey personally. The rest of us get the evacuation order from the offices, just before a rather large  _something_ slithers up through the place. It took out half the floor and a wall before heading off after Angel, throwing up the storm as it went. Half the city was sitting in surface water when we left, and that was” --he pauses to look at his watch-- “three hours ago now. We found Lindsey’s body on the way out - looks like he released this thing then got crushed by it - and on him the Wolfram & Hart file detailing the mystery beast. It's some type of storm serpent that’s been trained to take out whomever is the current CEO, in case of emergency so to speak.

So Fred and I grabbed the SUV and came for help. The last message I had from Giles mentioned that you were organising a team to San Diego, so we headed for the nearest hotel to the airport in the hopes of finding someone.”

Slayer nods slowly, processing.

“Right. We thinking kill the slitherer, storm clears?” she asks Wesley, but boy-watcher’s about to start in with the cautions and hesitations, can see him preparing them now.

“I don't think I've explained, this thing was gargantuan--”

“Yeah yeah, we got the picture Tweedpants. My girl's good with big snakes.” He waggles one brow at her on the last, and she guffaws and pats him with a backhanded slap on the shoulder before turning serious war leader again.

“You,” - she points at Wes - “Stay here and man the phones in case they start up. Any other teams getting to town will know to come here first, then you can update them and send them on. Fred, you drove here?” - quick nod - “You can drive back. Take the HMC team to the city centre, and they can get to work chasing everything that's rioting in the extra darkness. Team of four you lot, you'll get far more done that way. I'll finish off Slitherey then join you for the cleanup.”

“Buffy?”

Girl's got her hand in the air ‘sif this were a classroom. Nervous little thing at first glance, but reckon it's the twitchy energy of a brain running superspeed in every direction. Slayer looks at her to speak.

“Before we left I was working on untangling the mess Lindsey made of airport security, and I'd like to get back to the office and keep going if you don't need me to fight? We've got access to the CB systems from there.”

Wes’ face draws in at this, fear rippling before he clamps it down. Interesting. Reckon the blighter’s got a thing for her. Maybe they don't neuter them at watcher school after all. Wonder if she knows.

Slayer nods, “You can be rendezvous point. Team HMC, check in with her two hourly.”

Wes deflates, defeated. Rescind the earlier assessment: man's in love with her.

“Spike?”

She cuts through his crowd pondering, and the question floats between them. Knows she'll head off alone if he demures, and won't say a word. ’S if he ever would though. He swings his axe up to his shoulder, pulls himself from his lounging post against the wall and eyes her challengingly.

“Come on then little Dragon Rider, ‘bout time you delivered me my bleeding snakes.”

  
        **x**  


Marty feels cool and craggy now, fountain-damp and stone-like beneath her hands; but those eyes still swirl in greens and blues. Buffy winces as the water soaks into her pants, then hastily shuffles back to plant her bum on Spike's coat where he's pulled the tail beneath him.

“Not a word,” she hisses at him, then pats Marty on the shoulder, calls out, “Giddyup!” and the beast glides forth once more, around the hotel building and towards the open sea.

As they flow off the dock she has a split second's panic -  _does she understand I need air? -_ and feels Spike draw in a sharp breath behind her, but then they’re  _on_ the water, Marty covered to the thighs only, and Buffy tucks her knees up to keep her legs clear of waves.

If they were moving easily over solid ground it's nothing to way she travels in water - a part of it somehow, splash-free and wake-less like the surge of a great wave far from shore, an unstoppable force rolling across the ocean while they float weightless above. The sheer power thrills her, and she bends closer, wrapping her arms wide around Marty’s thick neck; giving up the pretence of controlling what feels like the tide itself in favour of just experiencing it as completely as possible. Behind her Spike mirrors her movement, chest firm against her back, and she feels his burst of sheer joyful laughter as Marty picks up speed even further, and it catches her up so that she bellows out a wordless roar of encouragement and squeezes her knees tighter, thinking,  _faster._

  
        **x**  


LA appears on the horizon far too quickly, reminding him vaguely that there are things in the world beyond  _Buffy-and-taniwha-and- all-consuming-wild-rushing-exhilaration_.

The city lights are dim flickers through sheets of rain, soaking him through in seconds despite the cover of his duster. As they surge up onto the flooded street he feels Marty’s feet come down hard, and grabs for a tighter grip over Buffy's back as water suddenly sloshes and crashes around them. The skin beneath his fingers is slippery now, smooth and sleek as a scaleless fish, and he shouts a  _hold tight!_  in Buffy's ear, but she's already pressed herself in firmly against that massive neck, shouting back,  _hold tight yourself._

They slow almost to a halt at the first intersection, Marty’s great head sweeping out left and right, giving him pause as he realises she's far longer than he’d thought - twice the length of an inner city bus from nose to tail tip - before she plunges to the left and picks up speed again.

From somewhere in the distance comes a crashing hiss of sound, and Marty’s head whips up, ears pricking; then she opens her great jaw and  ** _shrieks_** in return, a piercing roar of sound that almost has him let slip his hands to cover his ears before he catches himself. At the next corner she swings around in a sudden dive to the right, claws grinding on asphalt beneath the surface as her tail lashes in counter-balance; and then it’s before them across the end of the block: a massive bulk of long serpentine body, near a hundred feet it must be, head almost the size of a small car, writhing angrily in the street before a church.

“Waiting at the mousehole?” he shouts.

“Yep. Get in there and fire him, I'll help Marty distract it.”

He hesitates, pressing his face into her slick mane and drawing in a deep breath. Nothing his girl can't handle. And she's good with snakes. She's got this. “Have fun,” he whispers to her ear, then as Marty swerves to face the head end of the creature he jumps and rolls clear of her massive tail.

  
        **x**  


Marty halts facing the overgrown snake, and it stretches itself taller, making the hissing sound they caught earlier, thin tongue flicking in and out. It moves in quick twitches, nose questing, as Buffy pulls the scythe free from her back and adjusts her seat. Then it strikes, lightning fast, great fangs gleaming in the darkness as they come for Marty’s throat. Buffy jerks her knees back and ducks sideways; Marty turns to the right, shifting to present a broad shoulder to the serpent, and it's teeth smash into the rock hard skin there with a grinding crunch before it recoils, still hissing. Blood swells up slowly on two jagged lines down Marty’s shoulder, thick and viscous like sap; but she only stares back at the snake with those enigmatic eyes then opens her mouth in another shriek of challenge.

  
        **x**  


“Well I don't bloody know do I? Info came from your team. Tell the higher ups you quit, walk away, snake beast stops rampaging until they appoint a new CEO. Try shouting it to the sky, worked well enough for Buff. But that's my work done so if you don't mind I'll be getting back to the fun outside.”

“What's happening outside?”

“Town drowning, Dragon Slayer in action. Actually come to think I'll drag you out with me, shove your head in it's gob and we'll have an end to the rampage that way.”

He makes for the ladder up to the landing that Angel's holed himself up on, but Angel's already stomping down to march for the door, so he whirls to leave instead as Angel starts bellowing.

“I  _told_  you  _not_  to let her come here! She can't fight that thing.”

“Since when do I listen to you?” he shouts behind him as he steps outside.

 

  


 

She stands atop Mate Kanehe, feet planted on the top of her neck, left hand clutching the base of one of the massive  _(ears?)_ , right holding the scythe out low and back, lips moving as she whispers to her. The rain has stopped falling at last, leaving a sudden hush except for the hissing of the giant serpent facing them. Marty’s  _definitely_  bigger now, head almost as large as the snake's, but red blood shows in gashes and stabs all down her left side, marring her  _(blue and white?)_  skin. As he takes in the scene the taniwha opens her mouth wide, wider, then  _roars_ her screech at the serpent, and it lunges for them, thirty feet in a split second, heading to the right of Marty’s neck, but she leans ever so slightly forwards, still screeching, and Buffy pivots on her perch in the same motion. Marty’s jaw snaps shut around the serpents neck as Buffy drives the scythe stake-first deep into and through one massive eye. There's a series of crunches and squelches at once, then Buffy wrenches the scythe free and the snake's head flops loosely against Marty’s jaw. Buffy tosses her hair back then looks up at him, face splitting into a massive grin.

 

_breathtaking._  

 

“What…” says Angel beside him.

Spike swallows, overawed, then wrestles his voice and tries to pull off a casual tone,

“Oh, that's Buffy.” he answers, “That girl you thought you loved? Never bloody existed.”

  
        **x**  


Spike fairly  _skips_  over from the church doors to Marty’s shoulder, then extends his hand up for her with a small bow.

“M’lady.”

She takes it with her own, jumps lightly to the ground and bobs a ducking curtsy.

“Why thank you Sir,” she giggles.

He tugs her up to his chest and just studies her for a long moment before kissing her firmly on the forehead.

“Bloody magnificent you are love.”

“Not half bad yourself,” she smiles, flicking her eyes at Angel still standing confounded on the step, then squeezes his hand as she says, softer, “I love you.”

He smiles back, open and soft.

“I know, pet. I know.”

 

 

 


	6. Leavings

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

      **x**  
  


Marty brings her massive head down and releases the snake's neck, letting it  _schlop_ to the ground at her feet. She looks, he thinks affectionately, remarkably like a smug cat over a mangled mouse. Then she turns to them, mouth still wide, and that long tongue stretches out again, stopping like an open palm in front of Slayer, who reaches out slowly and plucks something from it, slipping it into her pocket. The tongue still hovers there, so he nudges her and says, “ _Now_ we shake hands,” extending his own.

The curling tip wraps his palm and wrist; plush and velvety, almost like soft moss, absorbent rather than wet. He holds still, worrying it would bruise if he squeezed; and it brushes over and around his hand for a few moments before gliding back into her mouth.

Buffy drops his other hand to step across to Marty’s ear, whispering into it, “ _Thank you_.” Then she kisses her softly between the eyes, and he sees her blink for the second time, semi-transparent membranes sliding across the surface and back.

Then Buffy steps back, and Marty’s head lowers to the snake again. She grasps it behind the skull and  _crunches_ down, cleaving the head free, and one massive clawed hand comes out to hold it in place as she tears off a great chunk of dribbling flesh and shards of bone. Buffy hurriedly backs up several more steps, face scrunching up adorably as she turns away.

“Oh gross, Spike, she's  _eating_ it's  _head!”_

“Lotta room there for innuendo,” he chuckles, but lets it lie as his gaze goes back to watching Marty, fascinated. As she continues swallowing hunks of snake the wounds down her sides ripple and shift, seeping what looks like water, until the skin gleams clean and smooth once more.

In next to no time the snake's head is gone entirely, and she noses at the stump of its neck briefly before rising to her feet. She inhales slowly, one deep breath, sides swelling, then  _flows_  again, back the way they came, water rushing in to join her from every direction, until she's made a river of the road, of all the roads, gushing down into the sea.

He shakes his head, then turns to Buffy, smiling up at him in shared wonder. She pulls the slip of paper back from her pocket and unfolds it, points to the last line, then folds it up and away again.  _More than words._

  
        **x**  
  


They walk to Wolfram & Hart on dry streets, pausing to check flood-shifted cars for occupants, but coming across no one. Looks like the early darkness sent most of the population scurrying for hearth and home before the water hit. The night looks dazzlingly bright now, city casting the sky in yellow and blue once more; black cloud replaced by a thin fog of evaporation that bounces the light right back.

Angel's quiet on the way, eyes down and hands in his pockets as he slumps down the middle of the road, and for a while they leave him be; silently taking a footpath each to scan alleyways and corners for trouble, eyes checking in with each other automatically at each clear strip. When a couple of miles have gone by without meeting anything, she catches Spike's eye and indicates from herself to Angel, and with a quick nod he switches to sweeping from left to right ahead of them.

Moving to join Angel in the street, she eyes him sidelong. There's a wearied tension to him, and she softens slightly, feeling magnanimous in victory.

“I don't get it,” she starts, “If you haven’t gone darkside, why’d you accept the big boss chair? And don't give me that spiel about ‘fighting from the inside’, there's more than that going on. So spill, before I have to go all detectivey.”

He's silent for a long time, then heaves a sigh and looks up - checking Spike's location - looking almost shameful. Right. She catches her partner's eye again and waves at him to back off, and after a dramatic eye roll he relents and moves out further. Then she fixes Angel with what she hopes is her Most Piercing Gaze and says, “Tell me.”

So he does. Haltingly at first, but picking up as he goes, until the whole sorry tale’s spilling out with a sense of relief. When he finishes she lets the silence sit for a minute, trying to choose her words.

“Why didn't you come to us?” she blurts eventually, and immediately cringes.  _Way to go with the counsellage_. “Forget that. It's done.” Then starts again, softer, “I can't believe Cordy’s…” Urgh. Finally she gives up and pats him on the shoulder a couple of times. “Thanks. You know, the sharing. Keep it up? It's much easier to pack when I know what I'm fighting.”

He nods gratefully.

“I didn't want you to get caught in this mess. I felt..the place has been contaminating me, and it was easier to hit out than face up to it.”

“Yeah well, it's my job. And umm, I'm sorry. About this time last week. Kinda lost it there.” She mumbles off, shamefaced, but he waves a hand to brush it away.

“I was asking for it. Thankful, actually.”

“Still, I shouldn't have reacted so rashly. I just...it's been tough.”

She follows his gaze as he glances to Spike, and loses herself for a moment in the smooth prowling grace of him stalking the street ahead.

When she remembers Angel she looks back to find him watching her, eyes probing and sad.

“ _Love makes fools of us all”_ he murmurs. “I'll take the rear.” He steps away, leaving her to tag team in front again.

  
        **x**  
  


Baby slayers are all excited chatter now, full of boast at each other’s moves and kills. Different, this new generation, from all who came before: more eager playfulness, less grim determination. Less grit too. Though he must concede his opinion’s bias; no one could ever hope to impress next to  _The_  Slayer. And they're onto something with the teams alright, truly formidable when they stand together.

He wanders off while she finishes up with them, finding his way through the labyrinth to Fred as she hangs up a phone.

“Faith will be here in ten minutes,” she says as she turns to him, eyes popping with satisfaction. “They’d already hit town when the phones came back online just now.”

He keeps his face turned away, casual-like, fiddling at a stand of brochures.

“You rung Wes yet? Man seemed a mite worried about his girl coming here.”

She blushes instantly, jerking her head down to babble “Oh no, we’re not- he’s not- he wouldn't be-”

Bingo. He snaps his eyes to her, smirking in satisfaction. “Call the man, put him out of his misery. And make a move for fuck’s sake, else you'll be eighty by the time he gets the guts for it. I'll go tell Slayer.” And he saunters off before she recovers enough to ask exactly which bit of info he's gone to pass on.

  
        **x**  
  


Faith & Co. flood in and confirm the HMC team's report: with Lindsey’s bid for the throne shot down visiting demons are quietly retreating from their viewing posts to slip out of the city again.

Buffy passes the reins over gratefully, nudging Faith with a few key points regarding Angel. With Faith having just about had it with the constant crowding as team leader perhaps she'd be willing to transfer over this way to be eyes on the ground and a hand held out.

Fred does her best to find them a flight home before morning, but with storm-induced cancellations it's an impossible task, so Buffy asks her for a vehicle instead. Apparently there's a whole garage of them on the undamaged side of the building, vampsafe window tint and all; help yourselves to whatever you need, just not Angel's Viper.

She collects keys, detours through the staff kitchen to stuff her pockets with blood and snacks, grabs Spike by one sleeve and leads him silently for the garage. When she drops his sleeve to head for the passenger door he baulks to a halt, but she turns and slaps the keys and a bag of blood into his chest, shoves a cookie into his about-to-object mouth, and says, “I'm sure it stinks, it's Angel's don’t-touch-favourite, just  _take me home already,”_ and flops herself into her seat, facing resolutely forwards (and trying to hold her frown) as she adds, “Eat the cookie.”

They take the Viper.

  
        **x**  
  


Half an hour on the dashboard clock as they cross town, and he knows she's watching it from the corner of her eye as she stares out of the window. They've never discussed this superstition of hers, but he knows the play without needing to be told: clear Angel's town before midnight. It's rubbed off on him, too; he imagines a clock striking the hour to turn the Viper into a pumpkin, halloween-carved into a sinister smile, the two of them trapped inside its fangs.

Highway stretches out empty though, so he puts his foot down, clutch ( _at last!_ ) taking them to 6th( _!_ ) gear as the beast  _roars_ to double the limit; and soon they're climbing the hills above the city, and she's turning to him with a grateful smile, tension gone, and he's patting her knee in return, and she's saying,  _viva las vegas baby_ , chomping into her own cookie _,_  eyes sparkling.

Remembers Angel's words then, that long-ago night at the factory:  _To kill this girl...you have to love her._ No wonder the plonker struck out at him so hard. Has it all backwards though, don’ he? Truly love this girl, and she only shines ever brighter, enflaming you in return until anything’s possible.

 

 

 

 


	7. Puss & Donkey

 

 

 

 

**10am Monday**

**15th November 2003**

**Chicago**

 

She closes their apartment door behind them at last, snips the lock and announces “I am not opening this again for  _at_   _least_ 48 hours”.

“Whatever shall we do?” he smirks, before it softens into something far sweeter. He dumps his bag where he stands and heads for the kitchen.  “I'll put the kettle on luv”.

God, she hates to think how tired she must look if he's dropping the innuendo that quickly.

Of course, the morning sun stops him at the kitchen doorway, and he huffs a sigh before turning back to her. “Could dash for it if ya like? Hear smoked tea’s all the rage these days?”

She laughs. “I don't even  _like_  tea, smoked or otherwise, and you know it. And despite appearances to the contrary I don't think it's coffee I need right now. Can we just go to bed? Or am I too much of a mess to be allowed in?” She’d bought this set of clothes as soon they got to Vegas, changing into the souvenir t-shirt and sweatpants in the car at the airport, but hasn't dared look in a mirror. Her hair must be in a truly atrocious state after last night. She groans. “Don't answer that. I'm going anyway. If it's too scary you can sleep on the floor.”

She steps into the kitchen and pulls the curtain shut, dumps her bag on the table and grabs a can of sprite before heading for the bedroom.

He's already in, lounging shirtless against the headboard with his hands crossed behind his head as if he's been there all day, smug grin in place once more.

“Fight me for it” he leers.

She aims the can of sprite at him and cocks her finger on the cap like a trigger. “Don't tempt me buster.”

He only laughs. “That bird's nest might have terrified the cabby, but I'm made of stronger stuff. Get your bum in here.”

She wriggles in beside him and jabs him with an elbow. “I think it was the smoking blanket that did that. We  _need_  to get ourselves one of those tinty cars.”

  
  
  


**4pm**

 

“No, no, m’lady hath spake. The door shall unfasteneth for friend nor fiend till the second day’s morn, for she wills it so.”

“But I’m  _hungry_.” She complains, that adorable bottom lip coming out to pout at him.

“Ah my dove, away to thy bed and rest thee. Food I shall procure, and with haste”

What though? Can't shove a pizza delivery through the catflap. Those puff things would fit though. Easier to hold in bed too. He shoos her off again and reaches for the phone.

  
  
  


**4:20pm**

 

She peeps around the bedroom door, watching him crouched in front of the catflap. He stills, listening hard, and she imagines furry ears swiveling, a tail twitching, pussycat readying his pounce, and clamps her lips down on a giggle. He keeps himself dead still, straight faced, but can't cover the way his eyes squint up at the corners with suppressed laughter in return.

  
  
  


**4:30pm**

 

“ _William?_ Whatever are you up to?” comes trickling through the flap on the heels of the delivery boy.

“Ah Miss Jem. I thought it high time to educate this lass on the great tradition of the lock-in. Money's behind the bar and the door’s bolted till Wednesday. Less’n you're needing something?” He twists down to peer out at her sideways, finding her shaking her head and chuckling to herself.

“Away with ye to your gallivanting, boy. I'll drop by some rations in the morn.”

“ _Most_ kind of you indeed Miss.”

Buffy's laughing from the bedroom door again as he pulls his head back in.

“Should I be all with the jealous? I can't tell when you two don't speak English.”

“Cheeky bint.” He tosses a pizza pocket at her.

  
  
  


**10pm**

 

There's flakes of pastry all through the sheets, and now a big wet patch of lemonade on the duvet.

“Time to abandon ship. And wash. I'm past my cave-buffy days.”

“Past it alright. Cave-buffy was never this grubby.” He chuckles and rolls out of the far side of the bed as he says it, arms up ready to defend against the pillow she’s about to smack him with, landing in an adorably rumpled heap.

She drops the pillow and dives off after him instead, fingers reaching to tickle, but he's too quick (this time), snagging both of her hands as she lands on him.

“Bath,” she says, “With bubbles. And conditioner. And vampire.”

He stills then, and she drops the jesting, eyes locking steady on his. “Join me, please? If you want to.”

He presses his lips closed and swallows quickly, eyes flicking down and back to hers. “Ok.”

  
  
  


**10:30pm**

 

“It’s going to spill” she observes casually, sitting toe-to-toe with him in the tub as they watch it refill around them.

“Nah, ‘s just bubbles. Not full yet.” He picks up a handful of said foam and dabs it onto her wet hair, eyes it assessingly, and decides she needs more. Gathers a big scoop and starts to cover the top of her head as she sinks down lower.

“You're right.” She says, turning her head purposefully away from the tap between them. “Plenty of room.”

“I'm always right. But  _now_  it's going to spill.” He says quietly, keeping his hands busy piling up foam, shaping it gently to cover everything but her face.

“It is.” She sounds not the least concerned about the possibility, but her shoulder’s already tense in restraint. A moment later she breaks, sneaking a slow hand sideways out to turn off the water.

The bubbles rise high above the bath’s edges, and he carefully leans forward a fraction, bringing himself eye to eye with her in a world of white foam. “Now,” he says, “stay very very still.”

  
  
  


**12am, Tuesday  
**

 

“Do we even have any movies? I am  _not_  watching your soaps all night.”

“Try that box under the tv. Andrew sent over some NZ docos we were supposed to watch before we left. I'll get blankets.”

She finds the DVD wallet, Andrew’s council logo firmly emblazoned and “NZ Research” underneath. Hmm. Got to be better than another Passions marathon though.

“This is The Lord of the Rings,” she calls out, breaking into a laugh. “I don't think it qualifies as non-fiction.” There's also discs subtitled ‘NZ music videos’, ‘black comedy’, a few ‘depressingly dark drama’, a whole pile with ‘supernatural horror’. Not tonight thank you very much, too non-fictioney after all. Then a note saying “All I could find sorry. Weird country. Have added some new stuff you might have missed instead.”

He comes back bearing hot cocoa and warm blankets, complains that they're all sequels, then insists they start with The Matrix. Complains at the fashion choices (call that a coat!), scoffs at the action (got nothing on us!), but falls too silent and big-eyed as mr-lamecoat watches his girl die on a rooftop. She presses in closer to his side and takes her turn to scoff (call that dying! Got nothing on resurrecto-team here!) and he presses his lips the top of her head for a long moment (sniffing her hair again no doubt, but at least it's clean now).

  
  
  


**2:30am**

 

Gotta be Prisoner of Azkaban next, been waiting on that one since picking up the book from the Potential’s stash back in Revello. Poetic parallels of course in watching Harry jump at shadows that turn out to be just a lurky guardian, but it's the castle that catches Buff’s attention.

“We're supposed to go there.”

“Hogwarts? Pretty sure it don't exist pet.”

“Not Hogwarts silly, Scotland. Willow's taking over the base there soon, and asking all the Sunnydale expats for a Christmas thing. Maybe she'll magic up the castle ceiling if we ask nicely.”

“That’d be nice.” Noncommittal. Feels a lifetime since Christmas has happened. She avoided it last year, claiming other priorities, but he knows that wasn't it - just not the same to look forward to without your mum. Maybe it's time to reconnect though, before everyone scatters further. Won't be easy on her, but neither is this isolation. “We could wear house colours.”

“That’d be nice.”

  
  
  


**5am**

 

Shrek 2 next, the harmless comfortyness of animation.

He's totally donkey, she giggles, and tells him so.

_\- Get out of my swamp!_ He roars back, hands up as claws and smile wide.

_\- Nay, you must neigh, my noble steed. But who does that make me? Your fierce fiery dragon?_

_\- No, my little puss in boots of course. Big green eyes and lethal sword thrust._

_\- I do not lick myself._

_\- Ah, but you do lick me..._

  
  
  


**8am**

 

_\- can you reach the remote_

she mumbles

-  _neigh, neigh. Sleep._

definitely pussycat now

curled up on my chest

sleepy ball of warm

pet her softly, softly

don't break the spell

  
  
  


**9am**

 

The phone wakes her, and she’s still bleary as she stumbles from the couch to answer.

“Hello?” She mumbles

“Buffy.” Giles. “Glad to hear you made it back safely. When did you get in?” She blushes. Should have at least left him a message yesterday. But he’s still talking on. “I was wondering when we could have the first debrief meeting? I’m not quite clear on what went on in LA before Faith took over. Or rather, not at all clear. Could we say 11am? I’ll call everyone in.”

“Umm..”

“And perhaps you could email your notes through ahead? I can slot them into order with what we've got already.”

“Umm..”

Spike snatches the phone away from her ear, leaning in over her shoulders and wrapping her in his other arm.

“Can't make it today. Having some door trouble.”

“You’re what? Put Buffy back on.”

“Ought to be ashamed of those manners Rupes. But like I said, door trouble, won't be going anywhere today.”

“I fail to see what kind of issue with a door could leave Buffy unable to make-”

“The kind where we're skiving, don't feel like running the council puppet show just yet”

“You can't just-”

“Oh bugger off ya wanker, we're throwing a sickie.” He clicks the end call button and holds the receiver out for her to return, eyebrow cocked. She sighs with relief, leaning back into him gratefully.

“Thank you. I was about to get umm-ed into something.”

“I know. Must be coffee time.”

  
  
  


**9.30am**

 

“Psst” He snaps his eyes to the catflap, then over to where Buffy's just vanished into the bedroom, and back to the flap.  
Sneaks over, lifts the flap and smiles widely. She holds a finger to her lips and sneaks away.  _Jemima you little beauty._  There's a note too -  _Essential vittles. Enjoy the bender._

“What are you tiptoeing around for?” she calls from the bedroom

“Chasing mice.”

  
  
  


**9:45am**

 

She finally digs out the laptop charger and carries everything out to the living room -- to the tea party.  _What_..

The table’s set with odds and ends: a tea towel for a tablecloth, egg cup of sugar next to the coffee plunger, plastic measuring jug of milk, her new dagger. And in the middle, a tall white iced cake on a sparkling crystal stand. He sips blood from a shot glass, pinky held out primly, then lifts it in salute.  _How?_

“Jemima?” she asks.

“Who? I just fancied m’self a round of baking, if you must ask.”

She chuckles and comes to sit.

“What flavour is it?”

He hesitates, inhaling.  _Cheater._

“Oh you know, all of them.”

“ _All_  of them?”

“Yep. Do the honors and you'll see.” He nods to the dagger.

She picks it up, still watching him dubiously, then sinks it in twice and slides out a slice.  _Huh._

The cake proves to be three cakes layered together, each with their own icing, all hidden by an outer coat of whipped cream. There's banana cake topped with custard cream and sliced banana, vanilla cake smothered in inches of fresh strawberries and strawberry cream, chocolate cake with dark glossy fudge.

He leans over and swipes a finger through the whipped cream, holding it before his mouth to say, “Told you.” Then slowly, sinfully, draws it in and sucks it clean.

  
  
  


**9:50am**

 

He pours her a coffee with sugar and milk, refills his shot glass, then adds to them both from his hip flask before pulling the laptop across and opening it. Better get a report in at least if they're going to keep playing hookie.

“What’re we saying about Marty?”

She considers, licking cake from her fork slowly. “Did you hear what Angel said about her?”

“Wasn't listening.” Well, not to that bit anyway.

“He asked me how I'd shouted at the snake so loudly. I tried to say it wasn't me, but he never saw her. Thinks I was standing on a conveniently placed rock. I mean, I really don't think there's any point mentioning her.” She flutters her hand, as if it's of no consequence, but her eyes have gone shifty. He feels the same, and turns aside to carefully straighten his cup as he answers.

“Yeah, well, I'm not keen to repeat the Ben-is-Glory fiasco. Best just leave her out. Say we drove.” They lock eyes then, hers glittering naughtily over a secretive smile he can't help returning.

  
  
  


**11am**

 

There's cake in her hair, she's sure. Definitely some in the rug, she can see it just in front of her nose. Should really do something about that. Later.

His fault really anyway, so he can clean it. But not now. Because then she'd lose her pillow.

Still some icing too, a dab on his arm just there. If she stretches she can probably reach it with her tongue.

Sticky. And sweet. Better keep licking.

Totally not her fault. She was only eating strawberries.

  
  
  


**8pm**

 

He watches as she pauses in front of the door, frowning slightly.

“Do you think we should check, perhaps, that we’re not really stuck? It’s happened before.”

She's been building up to that for a while now, way she started pacing around restlessly. Not ready for this to end though. Either of us.

“Neigh. If it is, let it be so.

But come, I see a solution.”

He leads her into the bedroom and digs through the wardrobe, finding her tall black boots and that orange dress she wore in Rome. Grabs himself a white(ish) t shirt, those cream satin pajama pants he's never worn. Pulls his belt free from his jeans and cinches it around her waist over the dress, tucks in a stake, then thinks for a moment. Takes his silky black button down and ties the sleeves together, then holds it out for her to duck her head through. Spins her to face the mirror, and steps away to open the bedroom window onto the fire escape.

“Come, Puss, let's us find you a hat.”

  
  
  


**2am**

 

“Tell me a story. A real one.”

It's been hovering on the back of her tongue lately, but she feels now’s the time: stretched out on the dock together, bodies sated from a good fight, the rippling lake to stare into during pauses.

“What sort of story?”

“Tell me..” she thinks for a while. “You’d been to Vegas before, and San Diego. Tell me something from there.”

He’s quiet for a long time, staring out at the lake, but it’s still a relaxed quiet, so she rolls onto her back and crosses her arms behind her head, settling in for her tale. Then he grins.

“Got just the one. You know that mountain? Where we met Marty?”

“Cowles, wasn’t it?”

“Yep. On the national maps at least. Locally it’s known as S Mountain, because back in the 1920’s some wanker went and painted a giant ‘S’ on the side, 400ft tall, in the middle of the night. Had to be students from the college there, SDSC, so when it faded away after a few years 500 of them got together and repainted it. Became a tradition after that, and except for covering it up during WW2 they kept it going for decades, was still freshly painted in ‘81. Looked like it’s gone now though, no bloody respect for tradition anymore.”

“Sssspike,” she says “Why’d ‘some wanker’ want to paint it there in the first place? It can’t have been for the college.”

“Dunno, do I? Did hear, though, - just rumour mind - that there may have been a bet of some kind involved. And that the losing bloke never bloody paid up, but it didn’t matter, because that ‘S’ was there to shame him for it for the next sixty years. Prob’ly him that finally put a stop to it, come to think. Thing was marvelous though, bet you could see it from space.”

He sounds softly proud, and she chuckles to herself.

“Seems a shame to lose the tradition. Someone ought to redo it one night.”

“ _Slayer_. Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?”

“Just saying, if we ever go back we should take a walk up there.”

He turns to her, watching silently for a time before saying softly, “We're not going back there.”

She rolls to her side so she can watch him in return. “No, we’re not. We'll find a new mountain. Hey! Maybe there's one with an S B university.”

“There's one in New York.”

  
  
  


**4am  
**

 

Hat’s perfect, he thinks, jauntily off-centre and over-large on her. Should bloody well be too, cost him a right packet to barter free from that bloke at the bar. Worth it though, for the way her face lit up when she stepped out of the ladies and saw him twirling it around a finger. Proper one too, leather tricorn, long frilly feather. Come to think, could be some fun to be had with that feather later.

  
  


 

**5am**

 

She stands and stretches her arms out, luxuriating in the feel of it, then holds a hand out to where he's still reclining on the dock, watching her appreciatively. He makes her pull him right up,  _lazy sod_ , but she knows he just loves how effortlessly she does it.

He keeps hold of her hand as they trickle for home, and she cocks her hat at the rows of yachts with her free one. “We should get a boat. Or actually, the council should. In case there's water demons.”

“Table it. Wouldn't cost much. And you know that if you prepare for them there won't be any, sods law and all that.”

“Good point. We'd be sure to do lots of checking though, just in case.”

“Course.”

“Did we send that report?”

“Yep. You'd better make an appearance today though, else we'll be finding a queue of watchers at the catflap.”

“Yeah. But not yet.”

“Door's still locked anyway.”

“So it is.”

  
  


**10am**

 

watch her

take off her hat

pick up her bag

stand at the door

 

give her a solemn nod:

i concur.

so she performs

_the sacred unlocking_.

 

\- spike?

\- buffy.

 

(we go back to being us

     but knowing

 we're always us, together.)

 

\- thank you.

\- always, luv.

 

she steps out.

i look around at the mess

and sigh

wistful

then get to work.

 

 

 

 

  


Chapter End Notes:

 

1\. It's called Atomic Cake and I discovered it when I looked up regional Chicago food. And  _OMG_ , it's all the cakes in one cake so you don't have to choose just one. I need this in my life and am totally making it asap. I mean,  _look at it..._[Atomic Cake](https://www.chicagotribune.com/dining/foodfocus/ct-chicago-atomic-cake-food-0315-20170310-story.html)

2\. Cowles Mountain was first painted in 1931 by a group of 500 students who were given the day off to complete the task. The rest is true, and there's a pic here: [S Mountain](https://archive.is/QcX6j/fc53a7a107c5d54365d5871dd31f57a69df65275.jpg)


	8. Epilogue

 

Here's the music video if you want to chuck it on too: [Dirty Creature](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Otq0GstJ024)

  


 

 

       **x**

 

Cleaning, then.

He dries the last of the flood off the bathroom floor, strips the bed again, carts the first load of washing. Gathers mugs flecked with blood and cocoa, plates from under the coffee table, discarded clothing from everywhere.

Their bags from the NZ trip are still half-packed on the bedroom floor, so he empties hers: rumpled clothing, stakes, a couple of smooth pebbles from the river, the hairbrush she was hunting for yesterday.

In the bottom of his bag he comes across the stack of music from the airport; pulls out the 45 again, considering. Looking at it now...that’s nothing like Marty. And the man’s not even sailing.

Right. Facing things.

How, though? They still haven’t got a stereo. Could ask Jemima, but that don’t feel right. Remembers, then, that NZ music dvd from Andrew; and sure enough there it is.

Chucks it on and turns away, busying himself straightening up the lounge further. Not for distraction, mind, just, the place is still a mess, innit? The music soon lures him back though, and he squats in front of the screen - throwing a requisite scoff at the theatrical glamour - but captured by manic eyes, jerky hands, a pale haunted face. Feels, suddenly and strangely, empathetic.

_oh mate._

_hope you found your dragon slayer._

  
  
      **x**  
  


There's music humming from the TV when she steps in, prompting the thought that they really ought to get a proper stereo at last. Nighttime wanderings along hushed winter streets have been building the beginnings of a gentle affection for the neighbourhood, still not home of course, but not so strange as it once felt. Time, perhaps, to let themselves cast anchor with a few luxuries.

She desks the council reports and,  
-  _can we get away with Christmas?_ he asks.  
She frowns down at the pile. Plenty people keen to cover HQ for the break, Giles for one turning down Willow’s invite, and insisting Buffy carry his gifts there in person. But feels irresponsible to consider it, whole mess of the new regime her responsibility at the core. So,  
-  _i don't know.  
_ she says.  
He flops himself into the chair and snatches up a pen and pad.  
-  _We're going. I'll make a plan. You make lunch._

Unpacking shopping in the kitchen, she picks up the rhythm of the music, and knowing his eyes are on her lets her body move with it, weight shifting lightly on her toes, sensuous stretch for the top shelves, twirling spin back to the bench. Soon feels his silent approach, the heady weight of his gaze from his shady lounging post on the doorframe, but keeps her back turned in false oblivion until he speaks.  
 _\- come out, come out, little slayer mine...  
\- Oh! _She says,  _didn't see you there_ (ha.)  _Let me finish this._  
Turns away to her task determinedly, and lucky too, because his next line almost gets her.

-  _dirty creature’s waiting to devour you, little slayer mine._

He does that lascivious thing with his tongue at the end; she can  _hear_  it without needing to see. Stupid vampire knows it transforms her into some kind of wanton hussy ready to rip his clothes off and surely something so thoroughly debauching ought to be illegal because it’s simply  _not fair_. But she clenches her teeth, inhales deeply and speaks to the window.  
 _\- go make that plan. I'll bring you a drink.  
_ If her voice quavers she won't admit to it. Instead she reaches back and slides her hair tie off casually, then runs her fingers through from her head to shake it all free and set it swinging.  _Counterblow._

  
  
      **x**  
  


she leans over to read

and frowns, quizzical

at empty page

as I    

 

         bask

 

a moment

 

     (a moment:  
\- vibrant - sun-dance-warmed cheek pressed to mine - soft breast tempting tip my head back seep deeper into her - little hand gliding firm possession over shoulder down chest -  
     :snatch up the moment pocket it)

 

then shake off, wave notepad

\- sorry luv, got a bit distracted

she moves around to stand in front

tickles her fingers under my chin with

little kissy sounds

i must object to this.

-  _hey!_

snap little fang to little tickle fingers as I jerk back

-  _don't tempt me missy_

real answer rises unbidden in me anyway though

 

so

slide up her shirt

press face against smooth skin of her belly

let it rumble forth

 

deep purry  _growl_

 

-  _oh_

she breathes, the

 

   _o   h_    

 

of

 steely muscle melting

molteness

 cascading cavorting

catalysing

reflexive reaction 

 

steps back

lifts her shirt rest of the way and gone

unbuttons her pants and slides them slowly to the floor

- _here you are vam-purry. You win._

 

(Damn I'm good).

  
  
  


 

\----------------------

  


Chapter End Notes:

So that's my story done :D

Didn't think I had it in me, but there you go. Thank you so much everyone for the encouragement and commentary and likes, wouldn't have done it without you. And special massive thanks to Badwolfjedi for being the most amazing cheerleader beta ever 💜💙


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